


Shattered

by distantstarlight



Series: SlaveLock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Caretaking, Coma, Consensual Sex, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Devotion, Emotions, Experimental Drugs, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mental Side Effects, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Non-Consensual Relationship, POV Sherlock, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Slavery, happy ending guarantee, heartless behavior, it all works out in the end, masterjohn, post-series 4 kind of, slavesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: Sherlock is in dire straits and has been sold as a slave to the sex-hungry and merciless master he only knows as John. In time, Sherlock will learn that everything is not as it seems, but what is the outcome of all he has endured?





	1. The Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yutamiyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yutamiyu/gifts).



Sherlock huddled beneath his sheet naked, ashamed, and, if he were being honest with himself, a tiny bit terrified. He was exhausted because he had barely slept the night previous, a condition made worse by the fact that he hadn’t been fed that day, or the day before, or the day before that.  In fact, there were many details about himself that he couldn’t quite focus on because fear, hunger, and fatigue had erased every last haughty trace of him ages ago. He remembered his assets. They’d been mentioned a great deal and now, he was listening to them again.

“Lot 37 – from the UK, male, white, certified virgin. Full disclosure detail; he was a drug addict, but there’s still a lot of good in with the bad! Clever with chemistry, maybe a few discipline problems, underweight, but he’s a good speaker, can provide all kinds of entertainment, tutor your children, take care of your pets, has all his teeth, uncircumcised, STI panel is clean, therefore medical proof of his chastity!” _That wasn_ _’_ _t proof at all!_ The titter he heard running through the audience let him know that those assembled weren’t impressed with anything they were hearing, not at all. Sherlock wasn’t sure what humiliated him more, being sold as a slave or how bored the auctioneer seemed to be. “Starting bids at _£_ _10 000_ , do I hear _£10 000?”_ There was resounding silence, and more than a few of the people in the crowd around the circular podium simply turned their backs and began chatting with other disinterested bidders.

Sherlock glared at his knees. _He had enough advanced training to qualify for four different doctorates! He was an accomplished detective! He came from a high-born family! He was considered atypically attractive! Certainly, all these qualities were enough to offset his status as a drug-addict enough to attract some kind of wealthy bidder?_

Apparently not. His price sank one failed bid at a time. Most of the people in the audience had lost interest, and the only person still looking at him was a rather down-on-the-cuff appearing yet obviously ex-military man who couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Sherlock. It took a second glance for Sherlock to note that the soldier was anything but unsuccessful. _He'_ _d deliberately dressed down for this event. Curious_. The man was patient, that was clear, simply standing there and waiting for Sherlock's price to drop to the lowest possible level. “£100,” shouted the auctioneer with impatience after a quick and steady drop in unit price, “He's relatively young, he's fairly healthy or he will be if you can keep him clean, in fact, make _him_ tidy up for _you!_ Use him any way you want, consequence free! Make him do your housework, or if you want a bit of fun, he can also service you in bed, you can practice your kinks without worrying about physical damage…”

 _“£1_ _00,"_ the blond man said, “He’ll do well enough for what I need.”

Without hesitation, the man took the only bid to come his way. “ _Sold_ to the Captain, excellent choice sir, we're pleased to finally be of service to you.” The auctioneer brusquely gestured to someone to deal with the transaction on the spot. The stranger paid cash, and without further ado, Sherlock was dragged off the stage, stripped of his sheet, and leg-cuffed. The small blond man scowled at the guard until he had draped the sheet back around Sherlock's shoulders instead of leaving him naked as he clearly planned. Sherlock was justifiably distressed, but not so much so that he didn't notice that the guard seemed wary and almost afraid of the Captain. _Interesting_.

“Come along, you.” The Captain snapped his fingers and walked briskly away.

Sherlock had no choice but to follow along as well as he could. The leg-irons rasped at his naked ankles and by the time he got to the end of the auditorium, he knew they were rubbed raw. By the time they were in the parking garage and inside the cab that waited, Sherlock’s ankles were bleeding.

“Shit.” The doctor was sitting in the back close to Sherlock and was frowning at the abrasions he now saw, “Fuck. I realize it’s against the law to sell you uncuffed, but do they damage merchandise on purpose?”

Sherlock blinked a bit, unsure how to react as the Captain fumbled around in his coat pocket before he produced a key for the leg-irons. When they were off, Sherlock couldn’t stifle a groan of relief, even though the Captain kept him kneeling on the cramped floor instead of letting him sit on the seat next to him. He was naked, a bit roughed up, but finally out of that horrific facility. His veins were screaming for a hit of something to take reality away. It had been a painfully long time since his last dose, and it didn’t help that they’d shot him full of _Blue_. He'd never be able to enjoy recreational drugs again, _Blue_ made it impossible and that was depressing. Losing your citizenship often translated into being treated worse than chattel, now he couldn’t even use anything fun to dull the pain. Guardsmen often used prisoners to satisfy whatever urges needed dealing with, so it was fortunate that Sherlock's vice had been drugs, specifically to _prevent_ himself from ever having sexual relations. The auction normally made good money on virgins. It had been his only saving grace, otherwise he would have been continuously raped right from his arrival until the sale.

No one with money believed that a thirty-seven-year-old man was verifiably a virgin, and since that was his only saleable feature, Sherlock had been sent to the block three separate times at three different auctions. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been in captivity, long enough for his memories to grow dull and vague, possibly because of the _Blue_. This had been his last chance to find an owner before he was sent to the brothels to be of common service until he died of disease or old age. Sherlock was appalled to be a slave but being a slave to a single individual was far better than being forced to accept the physical attentions of anyone who wanted a government-sponsored hole to fuck.

“So, what was it? Heroin or cocaine?”

The captain seemed only mildly curious and there was no reason whatsoever to deny the truth. You didn’t lose your citizenship for a single transgression. Sherlock dimly recalled that the law had taken him far more times than even the most generous judge would be willing to forgive before he’d been stripped of his legal identity. His mind was fuzzy though, and while he knew that he had a lot of information stored in it, Sherlock had no desire to access any of it. He had enough to deal with right now. “Honestly? Neither, everything, anything. I just wanted the world to disappear.”

Sherlock understood that he previously had an insatiable curiosity and a very scientific approach to life; once he knew that recreational drugs were available, he made a very comprehensive effort to experience them all. He’d been making inroads on his comparative analyse when he’d been arrested for the last time, and not even his older brother and all his hidden power could rescue him from himself.

“The specs on your bill of sale say that you’re a virgin but forgive me if I don’t take the word of a junkie and his slavers. I am a doctor and we’re going directly to my clinic where you will undergo a full physical. I have plans for you beginning as soon as possible, and I need you in perfect health.”

Sherlock swallowed hard but said nothing. He burned inside to verbally castigate the little man by his side, but it was imprudent to antagonise his master before he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. Isolated from others in the pen didn’t prevent him from hearing the horror stories, only a few of which could be dismissed as urban legend. His new master could be any kind of person, it was too early to tell with certainty, and Sherlock didn’t dare risk missing a vital clue. So far, he didn’t seem so bad, but he could be part of a group of people, or better at hiding his true nature in public, or _something_. Sherlock was reckless, but he wasn't entirely a fool, he was in a different sort of danger now than what he'd been in while at the facility, he needed to bide his time and make observations before he could make any kind of plans. _Playing along was safest_. “Yes, Captain.”

The blond man looked startled, then to Sherlock’s bemusement, his cheeks coloured. “My name is John Watson, I used to be a captain in the army, but I’m discharged now. Call me John.”

“Yes, John.” The name was as boring as the man appeared, but Sherlock couldn’t shake the impression that it was all a mask. _Captain John Watson_ had frightened the slaver with a single look; there was a story there, and with the clues now available, Sherlock knew that he was intrigued enough to pay complete attention to his master. “My name was Sherlock Holmes.”

John was perfectly within his rights to name Sherlock anything he wanted, or number him, or to never treat him as anything more than a device to be used, but instead, John reached down and shook Sherlock’s hand, “Pleased to meet you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t pretend to be an expert on human social interactions, but he was fairly aware that citizens didn’t speak to slaves like they were equals, “Quite.” He didn’t know what to say next, so he said nothing.

John didn’t seem to mind, paying the cabbie when they arrived at the clinic and motioning for the assistance of his nurse, a smiling middle-aged woman whose name tag bore the label _Mary_. She smiled brightly at the doctor, and Sherlock noticed that she discreetly tried to catch John’s eye, smiling extra hard whenever John even glanced her way. The doctor was either blind to her clear flirtations or incapable of multitasking because he was beginning a chart for Sherlock’s details and appeared to be completely focussed on filling out the paperwork as fully as possible on his own. Dismissing his nurse, John himself weighed, measured, and evaluated Sherlock’s health. He noted down everything, including Sherlock’s birthday, commenting, “I’ll remember to get you the dessert of your choice.”

Sherlock was puzzled _. Why would any master bother to give his slave birthday treats? His master didn'_ _t need to give Sherlock a thing, that'_ _s what being a slave meant_. If John wanted to slowly torture and kill Sherlock, he might get a few black looks from those who knew but there would be no legal repercussions, slaves had no rights or protections in place. “She’s interested in you.” He wasn’t certain if it was imprudent to let his master know that he’d noticed such a detail or if John even wanted to know.

“I’m not interested back. I have very particular tastes, and while Mary is a perfectly agreeable person in all respects, as well as a highly competent nurse, she does not meet the requirements I have in mind. You do.” John’s reply was short, clipped, and distracted as he continued his comprehensive exam.

Sherlock swallowed hard again because John was drawing phials of blood now, earmarking each one for different tests to be done on site. He worked quickly and professionally, clearly good at what he did, “You’re not gay.”

“I told you, I have very specific tastes. Today is a very good day for me, so sit still a little while longer like a good boy, and I'll get you some nicotine patches as a treat.” John was making note of the marks inside Sherlock's elbow, going so far as to take his mobile out to make a photographic record of all of Sherlock's parts. John took nearly two hours to complete the exam to his own satisfaction and Sherlock's cheeks burned crimson at the mere memory of having John's latex covered finger checking the condition of his prostate. The medical lubricant had been mostly wiped away, but Sherlock couldn't ignore his awareness of how some was still inside, and that no one, not even he, had ever touched that part of his body before. “Ours _will_ be a sexual relationship, in case you were wondering.”

There was colour high in John’s cheeks, but the rest of his face had a determined mien, “Of course, John.” Sherlock’s mouth was dry. _John was going to have sex with him!_ Distantly, he'd known this was a definite possibility, but now he had firm assurances. _Firm_. Sherlock felt his own cheeks heat up and felt disgusted with himself. He'd never entertained the idea of having sex with anyone, not for lack of desire, but that he could not stop analysing the people he tried to be close to. _Now John was there, and Sherlock had no choice, and John had_ peculiar  _tastes, and Sherlock needed to be in good health to endure it all, so what did it mean?_ He just didn’t know but a feeling of growing unease began to unsettle him.

“Nothing too odd, I promise.” John could say whatever he wanted and change his mind a thousand times, it made no difference. Sherlock was in no position to question anyone’s word. John was his master, and how Sherlock was treated from now on was entirely up to him. Soon enough, Sherlock would become carnally acquainted with John and no one in the world was going to stop it from happening. “I’m going to get you some scrubs to wear back to my flat, and some hospital slippers. There’s a shower right there, wash up quick and I’ll be back in about five minutes.”

There was no privacy curtain, merely a fixture coming out from the wall, and a well-screened drain set into the floor. There were generic bottles of shampoo and body-wash on a trolley, as well as a small stack of towels so Sherlock did as he was told. The pressure was intense, and the stinging needles of the water made his skin rosy and mottled pink. Sherlock was disturbed when Mary came in to ogle him, but he had no right to ask her to leave or to not look. She wasn’t discrete about it, leering at him from the door until John came back. She nearly leapt out of the room as he glared at her, shame painting her flushed cheeks an unattractive pink. “Nurse Morstan,” John’s voice was clipped with fury, “There is no medical reason you need to be anywhere in the vicinity of _my_ body slave. He is not for anyone but me. If I find that you’ve helped yourself to so much as another glimpse of him, I will terminate your position with this clinic instantly and you will never find work in London again. Do you understand? The law is entirely on my side, so don’t test me, Nurse. Leave. Now.”

Sherlock felt an almost unwelcome wave of relief when John tersely dressed his subordinate down. It was bad enough that John would be intimate with him, Sherlock didn’t want to expose himself to anyone else unnecessarily. John took up a watchful pose near the door and indicated that it was all right for Sherlock to continue his ablutions uninterrupted. The shower didn’t take long and the second he began towelling his hair dry, John stepped closer. “Lovely.” The captain came over and took a towel up. He dried Sherlock’s back, making Sherlock lift one leg at a time so he could pat the water off, “I am going to enjoy you so much.”

John made no attempt to hide the fact that he found Sherlock physically attractive, taking a good deal of time to dry off Sherlock’s bum before making sure every speck of moisture had been dabbed away from his penis and testicles. He wrapped Sherlock’s ankles after treating them with a medicinal cream, checking him all over one more time to make sure he’d treated every single mar or bruise. When he was done, John slapped Sherlock’s arse lightly. “Bend over, now there’s a good boy.” Sherlock found himself braced on the examination bed exactly as John had made him stand during the more penetrative part of his visit. “Hold your arse cheeks apart, I need a proper look, not just a finger in.” Sherlock blushed harder than he ever had in his life and miserably cupped his own bottom, pulling himself wide open. He heard John use his camera several times before he felt a delicate finger sliding over that mostly untouched bit of body, “Well done, lovely boy, that’s going on my blog.”

 _His master was publishing online pictures of Sherlock as a sex-slave? No!_ Sherlock listened to John moving around behind him and nearly leapt upright when the doctor suddenly smeared more lubricant against his anus, “This will make things easier later.” Sherlock felt John begin to firmly massage small circles around his entrance, causing the muscles to relax enough to permit John to insert his thumb, “Such a good boy, well done Sherlock, well done. Bear down, this will feel a bit odd at first.”

Sherlock bit back a cry when John pushed something with a blunt point against his very slick hole, “John!”

“Bear _down_ , this is a small anal dilator. I need to begin training your body to be ready for me. It’s been a long time since I found someone I can get off with properly, and I’m not going to make myself wait longer than I have to.” Sherlock clutched the exam table and tried not to whimper with distress while John pushed the ever-widening toy past his reluctant sphincters. He had to grit his teeth as John pressed the broadest part in and couldn’t stop himself from heaving a relieved sigh when his body closed around the narrow neck and caused the wide flat handle to settle itself snugly between his arse cheeks. It was uncomfortable enough to nearly be painful, stinging and overfull feeling. “So pretty, Sherlock. I’ll change it up a size when we get home. Need to keep you stretched.” John took more pictures, zooming in, and once, pulling at the handle so Sherlock’s body was stretched out for John’s next photograph.

There was a discrete tap on the door. John let Sherlock dress in the scrubs before he answered it. The plug was ridged enough that Sherlock was very aware of its presence and gave him a pretty good idea of what he could expect. Mary stood there with a sheet of paper which she handed to John, her eyes on the floor respectfully. “Thank you, nurse.” John said before he absently closed the door on her face, not saying a thing about her freshly applied lipstick, or noticing the poisonous glare she shot at Sherlock. “Thank goodness for modern technology, right?” Several recent inventions had made blood analyse nearly instantaneous, the days and weeks of waiting for results now outdated. John looked very pleased, “Excellent, that makes everything so much easier.”

“I’m healthy?” Sherlock had momentary doubts. He’d been careful with his needles but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have contracted something entirely by accident. John showed him the results so that Sherlock could see for himself, “Thank you.” The plug shifted, and it made him gasp.

John grinned, eyeing Sherlock’s behind hungrily, “Come along, Sherlock, time to get started.” John led Sherlock from his clinic and into another cab. Kneeling with the plug was almost uncomfortable but he slowly grew accustomed to the odd way it nudged him from the inside whenever they rounded a corner. They drove through the streets of London until they were close to its heart, “There we are, Baker Street. It used to be divided up into separate houses, but I’ve managed to buy them up one at a time and went through the bureaucratic process to remodel it back to its original singular form. I’ve kept a couple of tenants just for tax reasons, and they pay rent by looking after the place for me, so I don’t need a cook or a maid or anything like that, I need a pet.”

 _John was very well off if he could afford to do such a thing in Central London. His practice must be patronised by those with deep pockets to allow such a relatively young man to earn such wealth_. Sherlock knew the _Peerage_ , and there wasn't a _John Watson_ on the rolls, he was a self-made man. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why a slave? You are well off and not unattractive or unintelligent. Your nurse was more than willing, I’m sure there are many others who would also be willing to satisfy whatever urges you say you need me for? Why a slave?”

John locked the door to his personal rooms behind them before he answered, “I don’t want a partnership, I want to have someone completely. I want to control their life, utterly. I want everything they need to come from my hands. I want their sole concern to be my pleasure and happiness. If I want to handle you with tenderness, I will. If I want to work my anger and frustration off on you, I will, and I won't need to apologise because you're not my boyfriend _, or_ my husband _, or_ my colleague _..._  you are my _slave_. We will fuck when I want to fuck, and you will never say no to what I want to do. You will do whatever I ask, whenever I ask it. You will be mine alone, trained to please only me, so don't think that you will ever know what it's like to be with another man or even a woman. I own you. You are, in every sense of the word, _mine_ , not anyone else, just me, forever, and nothing you can do will change that. That's what _I_ need. I need to be the one that you depend on the most. I will take what I want from you and give you what you need when I feel you need it.”

Sherlock flushed hot and cold at John’s words. No spouse or romantic partner would accept those conditions for long. A slave was his master’s easiest choice. “Yes, John.” John didn’t wait, leading Sherlock through well-appointed rooms until he got to what was clearly his bedroom. John touched Sherlock softly, running his fingertips over the planes of Sherlock’s muscles, rubbing and teasing the more sensitive areas. “Right now?”

“Yes, beautiful boy, right now.” John undressed and allowed Sherlock to look at him. He was fit, heavily muscled, and aroused. Sherlock watched as John’s cock filled out and it terrified him. _It was thick, heavy looking, and it was far too large to go anywhere near his anus! John was practically deformed! Normal people did not have sexual organs that large!_ “Bend over, I’m going to open you some more, and then I am going to penetrate you. Don’t struggle, you’ll only hurt yourself. If you don’t fight it, it may even feel pleasurable, but no matter what, I will be coming inside your arse!”

John was methodical about it all and Sherlock managed to stay silent while his small plug was removed. He was glad John had him face down on the bed. Tears were falling from his eyes, soaking into the pillow as John immediately began to use two digits to finger him, applying a large amount of lube, but not slowing enough for the sting of entry to fade entirely. It seemed to turn the Captain on to hear Sherlock’s small gasps of agony. In a short amount of time, John used three fingers right up to the second knuckle. Sherlock grunted out in shock and a small amount of pain. John groaned deeply, “I’m so fucking turned on. Listen to you! I love how deep your voice is.”

John kept Sherlock with his arse high in the air. Pouring even more lube to slick himself, John used his glistening fingers to push some into Sherlock’s anus. Without another word, John took the head of his cock and began to press it inside of Sherlock’s body. He wasn’t anywhere near prepared enough so Sherlock couldn’t stop the almost shrill cry that escaped his mouth. He bit into the bedding to keep even more pained noises from getting out because it felt like John was inserting his entire arm into his bum. “You’re even tighter than I imagined, just gorgeous. Now I _know_ that no one has ever been up here, not when you’re this tight, and just listen to you!”

John began slowly, pressing and grinding, enjoying every uncontrolled clench and agonised wheeze he got out of Sherlock. “You’re going to feel me for _ages_ after I’m done,” John promised darkly. Eventually he began to pull back further and to slide in faster. Bit at a time, John began to truly fuck Sherlock, bucking his hips and finding a pace that caused their bodies to slap together loudly. He seemed to enjoy that too, pounding his big cock into Sherlock’s swollen hole with abandon. Sherlock could barely stop his sobs, even shouting out whenever the sharp jabs became too much to keep silent about. It hurt, certainly, but worst of all, he felt entirely dehumanised to be used so impersonally. John was laying on top of him now, his hips moving steadily as he pleasured himself without care for Sherlock’s potential needs. “Yeah, that feels good right there, oh fuck you’ve got a tight arse, so pretty, so wet, just gorgeous.” John was now braced on his fists, his hips slamming hard into Sherlock’s arse, forcing his cock to go as deeply as possible, “Fuck, I needed this.” John’s voice was deep and raspy, “I’ve had such a week. All I want is someone to fuck to take the edge off, you’re so fucking perfect, listen to how you cry!”

 _Sherlock didn'_ _t really care how stressful John'_ _s week had been. His arsehole was a burning ring of fire!_ John suddenly began jerking with irregular thrusts, moaning shamelessly. His already too big cock suddenly seemed to widen and then Sherlock yelped as he felt salty semen being rubbed into the microtears of his anus, “It _hurts_!”

“It _looks_ so fucking hot, I’ve just wrecked your little virgin hole. Look how dirty that is, you’re leaking my spunk already. What a good boy you are.” Sherlock felt the warm wet mess of it begin to trickle down his leg, “Hold still, boy, there’s a bit of blood but nothing serious.” John reached for his mobile and took several more shots of Sherlock’s abused behind. “I feel brilliant, that was the perfect first shag.”

Sherlock absolutely hated John. He could think of six different ways to murder John while he slept and cursed silently because he knew he wouldn’t try any of them. Once his master died, Sherlock would just be sold to a new owner. He would never be a citizen again. His genetic material had been registered under the _Slavery Act_ , and facial recognition software would flag him anywhere in England if he tried to behave as if he were still legally his own person. Now John owned him and as horrible as it had felt, his only comfort was that he wasn’t going to be used by others. John had been very clear about his singular ownership over Sherlock, and it was obvious that he was a fiercely possessive man. He was Sherlock’s best and only choice.

John hummed happily as he made Sherlock take a long hot bath after. He rubbed Sherlock’s shoulders, petting his hair, and stroking soothing hands over his body. Sherlock loathed him. After he was out and dry, John inserted a suppository which instantly numbed the entire region, much to Sherlock’s relief. “You’ll be too sore to fuck tomorrow if I don’t do this, not that I’d stop myself. This will help you heal right up, though you’ll still feel the strain of it all but you’re a fine strong lad, aren’t you? You’ll be right as rain in no time. Such a pretty boy.” John hunted around the room until he gathered up some old bedclothes of his that were too short for Sherlock but covered him better than the sheet he had arrived in. “Come on, we’re going to eat and then we’re off to bed. You need to heal, and for that, you need rest.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He wasn’t hungry even though he hadn’t had a proper meal in days, nor had he been fed regularly while he’d been held for sale. No one cared for slaves. Once the judge had stripped him of his citizenship, Sherlock had been locked in a cell on his own to preserve his virginity and then had essentially been forgotten. John gave him a bowl of hot bowl of vitamin infused gruel and a large whole grain bread-roll, setting a steaming hot cup of unsweetened black tea beside it, “All of it, you need to keep your strength up.”

Sherlock’s stomach roiled as he spooned his food in. He began experiencing cramps almost immediately, but they went away as his empty belly filled. When his light meal was done, Sherlock suffered to have his plug removed to see if he needed to defecate. John at least let him use the loo alone, but as soon as Sherlock was done, the doctor came in to clean him up with an additional douche. It was mortifying as well as uncomfortable, but John just whistled cheerfully as he worked, “There you are, all nice and tidy.” He made Sherlock wash off one more time in the shower but then got him back into his ill-fitting pyjamas after inserting another suppository, then made Sherlock get into bed, “I need to get up early tomorrow. I don’t care if you sleep but try not to disturb me while I rest. You will remain in bed with me unless you need the loo, in which case, use it as quickly as possible and return to my side. You are here for my pleasure, not your own, so I want you to remain beside me until I say otherwise.”

Sherlock was angry, but he said and did nothing. _There was nothing to do or say, he had to obey his master no matter what. It didn'_ _t matter to John that he was bored or restless. John didn'_ _t care if Sherlock'_ _s arse felt puffy and swollen, as well as a bit itchy from the suppository_. As far as Sherlock was concerned, he was in bed with his rapist and nothing in the world would be right again. John fell asleep quickly, lightly snoring as he slept on his side, one arm possessively over Sherlock’s chest. The bed was comfortable, and John was very warm, so despite his negative feelings, Sherlock dozed off eventually and remained that way throughout the night.

He woke early in the morning, flat on his belly the way he normally slept because John was extracting his plug, “Pull your leg up.” Sherlock obeyed, pulling his left leg up toward his chest as John fit his own body tight against Sherlock’s back. “Good boy.” John wasted no time replacing the plug with his penis, not giving Sherlock any time to wake up or respond. He pumped vigorously for almost twenty minutes, huffing and groaning his selfish pleasure, stabbing Sherlock’s sore hole with his thick cock without care for the additional pain he was causing. “This is just perfect, this is just what I need to start my day.” John seemed to enjoy laying on top of Sherlock, his hips moving with unhurried motions as he used Sherlock’s body. “Mmm, this is so nice. You are so tight, I really like this.” _Sherlock had never despised another person more._

A few minutes later, John groaned loudly, and Sherlock felt his unwelcome ejaculate pulse into his body. John pulled out without warning and used Sherlock’s pyjama top to wipe himself clean. “Into the shower with you.” He made Sherlock clean himself up before he lubed Sherlock’s abused anus one more time and inserted an even larger plug to keep him stretched. “I’ve got a high sex-drive. After breakfast, I am going to go to work for four hours, and when I get back, we’re going to try a few things. You can wander inside the house anywhere you please except inside the tenant’s portions. _You may not hurt yourself. You may not try to leave. You may not try to hurt others_. If you are a good boy, I will reward you. If you are a bad boy, I will punish you. I don’t care either way because I will enjoy all of it.”

Breakfast was eggs and toast for each of them. John made him eat two eggs, and then made Sherlock take vitamin tablets as well, “You’re underweight for your height.” Sherlock had never needed a hit so badly. John waved around a nicotine patch, patting his thigh to call Sherlock to him as if he were a dog. Sherlock obeyed, holding out his arm so John could stick his _treat_ on. “There are no narcotics in the house. I have some medications, but I know exactly how much of everything there is so if any is missing, even if it wasn’t you who took them, I will punish you. Obey me, Sherlock. I can make your life tolerable or an endless misery. Say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Such a good boy, well I’m off now, beautiful. I’m trusting you to be good, don’t disappoint me.” John gave Sherlock a long and lingering kiss, fondling his backside boldly, reaching beneath the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms to grip and squeeze the ample flesh, and to prod at the plug to make it shift uncomfortably. “Kiss my cock goodbye.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop his scowl from forming but he obediently dropped to his knees and undid John’s belt and flies. Pulling down John’s pants just enough, Sherlock pressed his lips to the hot length of flesh he found, “That’s a pretty sight, I do have a few minutes, not enough but…” John pulled his cock out the rest of the way and made Sherlock fellate him for a minute. Sherlock didn’t care for the texture or the taste and had to struggle not to spit John out again. His foreskin was particularly disgusting, but John just used his hand to pull it back until his head was exposed. He rubbed it on Sherlock’s lips and tongue for several seconds before pushing the rest of his cock into Sherlock’s reluctant mouth. John only got partially hard, but he seemed to enjoy it well enough until he needed to tuck himself away, “You have such a pretty mouth. I’ll be doing more of this another time. Laters!”

Sherlock was bored, and his bum hurt. He did as he was permitted, exploring the vast house alone, scrupulously inspecting every inch of it while remaining carefully distant from any area that looked like it might house a tenant. It was well-appointed, tasteful, and oddly sturdy. All the windows sported gorgeous treatments but only to hide the fact that there was no view. The few windows facing the street belong inside the rooms he wasn’t allowed in. All he could see when he opened the curtains was a brick wall.

It was clear that John’s military background had heavily influenced the interior décor he’d chosen. It was dark, rich, and very masculine inside the house. There was a small telly in one room, but Sherlock had never cared to watch shows or the news. He found a small library that was mostly filled with medical books and journals, and for his remaining time alone, Sherlock read his way through some of them, making notations in pencil along the columns whenever he found an inaccuracy.

He was startled when the front door crashed open. John stalked in, “Sherlock! Come here, now!” Sherlock scrambled, nearly running to meet John. His master forced him to his knees, pried his jaw open before tugging down his trousers. John reinserted his cock just as he had that morning but now he was in a rage. He got hard, fast, and ruthlessly fucked Sherlock’s mouth, going deeper and deeper until Sherlock was gagging and almost heaving. John just gripped Sherlock’s hair tighter and thrust as deeply as he could. Sherlock felt his gorge rise. He was going to vomit, he couldn’t stop it. Yanking his head back, he made a mess on the floor, helplessly coughing up sick all over himself. John didn’t let him have even a minute to recuperate, just turning him around, jerking down his bottoms so he could pull the plug from Sherlock’s anus without care. John took his spit slicked cock and shoved hard. Sherlock screeched as John impaled him. “Shut up. You’re cleaning that filth up. Be quiet!”

John held Sherlock’s hips tight and pumped hard and fast. It took only a few minutes before Sherlock felt John’s release inside him. His master let him go, and Sherlock collapsed onto the floor, his arse stinging horribly. “You’re a fright now. Clean up. Shower. Lunch is in an hour.”

Sherlock wanted to weep. He had never felt less valued. Numbly, he fetched paper-towelling from the kitchen area and cleaned up his own sick before he went into the shower to wash his body from head to toe. The second he was done brushing his teeth, John appeared. His master was holding out a clean set of pyjamas, also too small, “Do the laundry. It stinks in here.”

Sherlock knew where the combination washer/dryer was, so he took his soiled garments and did as he was told. When he came back, he stood in the kitchen with his eyes downcast, waiting for his next order. His arse ached fiercely but he didn’t dare ask for medical intervention. John cooked his own lunch, humming contentedly while he worked at reheating something from the fridge which he divided into two portions. It was stir-fry, and John gave Sherlock no chance to decline, “Every bite.”

Lunch was silent. Sherlock didn’t look at John. He sat quietly and ate his meal, eyes down. He was so miserable and there was nothing he could do to end it, not unless he was willing to die, and he wasn’t. John was horrible, rough and heartless, but he was at least just one man. Sherlock knew that he would be enduring all the same things dozens of times over if he were enslaved anywhere else. The orgasm and food seemed to settle John down from his anger, so after they finished, he made Sherlock follow him to the library where he sat on the sofa and cuddled Sherlock to his side. Petting him like an animal, John took up one of his journals while his free hand carded through Sherlock’s hair.

“Suck my cock while I read. Do it slowly, play with me. I don’t want to come, I just want to enjoy your pretty mouth.” Sherlock climbed off the sofa and knelt on the thick carpeting in front of the sofa. John obligingly undid his own belt and flies, lifting his hips long enough for Sherlock to pull his trousers and pants completely off, “Don’t forget my bollocks, I like the way it feels when they get attention.”

Sherlock wasn’t certain how to proceed. He decided to begin by familiarizing himself with the kinds of touches that aroused his master, after all, John wanted him for sex. It stood to reason that if Sherlock was good at sex, John would be good to him, he’d offered as much. If Sherlock was a good boy, he’d get treats and rewards, if he was bad, John could do anything he liked, and that was terrifying.

Tentatively, he licked John all over, paying special attention to the wrinkly sacks that held his testicles. John seemed really enjoy that, his cock quickly growing fat and thick. He memorised the shape and texture of every part of John’s cock, mentally noting any instance where his master showed increased positive responses. Gingerly, he took the head in his mouth and lightly sucked. John moaned and patted his hair encouragingly. Sherlock knew John had enjoyed pushing himself deep into his throat so slowly, he took more and more of John inside until it was uncomfortable. Taking it easy, Sherlock continued to allow John to bump the back of his mouth, acclimating himself, trying to make his gag reflex non-reactive. John hummed appreciatively, “Such a good boy, look at you practising to deep throat. Clever lad, just what I need.”

John continued to read in a leisurely fashion, keeping one hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls, sometimes pressing down to make his slave gag a little on purpose, but otherwise just letting Sherlock keep going. His jaws were aching, so he rested them by using his tongue and hand to stroke and lick, drawing it all out for as long as possible. “This is really nice, but I think I want something different.” John stuffed a cushion behind his back as he arranged himself. Spreading his knees apart, John set his heels on the cushions, his arse exposed to Sherlock’s face, “Lick me out, keep at it until you’re fucking me with your tongue.”

 _Disgusting!_ Sherlock knew that hesitating wouldn’t get him out of this and that it wasn’t wise to risk angering his master over something he couldn’t stop anyway. Bracing himself, Sherlock leaned in and forced himself to lap at John’s tiny tight anus. It was a bit darker than the rest of his skin but not much. It was wrinkled and hard, but oddly, the tissue itself was very soft. Sherlock was surprised to find that it didn’t taste very different than John’s penis had, a bit musky, a tad salty, but not grotesque. He swept his tongue in circles, pressing and licking until John was sighing with contentment, “That’s just lovely. Go on, push inside. I want to feel your tongue sliding in and out.”

The angle was uncomfortable, but Sherlock managed to press his mouth to John’s backside. It took a fair amount of effort, but he managed to slip the tip of his tongue in. John groaned. Sherlock used his hands to keep John spread wide and when it was possible, Sherlock began bobbing his head shallowly, letting his stiffened tongue push deep before pulling it back, “I think I want one of those long fingers in there. Wet one with spit, push it in slowly.”

Sherlock did as he was bid, penetrating his master with his finger until he was fucking John slowly with it. John sighed happily and lay there smiling with his eyes closed, “Lovely, just lovely. Two now, slow.” Sherlock spit on his fingers and carefully worked them in. John was hot and tight. Every once in a while, he clenched down deliberately, almost grinding Sherlock’s knuckles together, “That’s really good. Three now, pet, let’s see if you can get three in there.”

The pressure was incredible. Sherlock worried that John would grind his fingerbones to dust. His master was stroking his own cock now, his eyes still closed as Sherlock struggled to push three long fingers deeper. “Crook them, find my prostate but don’t poke it, just flutter around the edges.” Sherlock obeyed and listened to the deep groan that he caused his master to give, “Oh yes, that’s exactly right, pet. That’s so good.”

Sherlock was horrified to find that his cock was responding to John’s arousal. Ashamed, he tried to hide his erection, but John noticed immediately, “Oh yeah, pretty boy. There’s lube in the bathroom, go get it right now.” Sherlock hurried away, his cock jutting ignominiously out in front of him. John was going to fuck him, and his arse was so sore already, he just didn’t know how he was going to handle it. He rushed back to John who was laying on the sofa fingering himself lazily while he stroked his still hard cock. “Sit down in the middle of the sofa, put this cushion behind your back.”

John shocked Sherlock by pouring lube onto Sherlock’s cock and not his own. His master straddled Sherlock’s lap and made Sherlock hold his own cock still before settling himself on it, “Yeah, yeah, this is what I need right now, just a long slow ride. Good boy, you’re such a good boy.”

Sherlock’s penis had never been so hard, and Sherlock hated it nearly as much as he hated John. _His transport was betraying him! Being inside John'_ _s arse felt incredible. It was the best feeling he'_ _d ever experienced._ John kept his eyes closed, his hands clutching Sherlock’s shoulders as he lifted and dropped himself, swirling his hips, or pressing down to force Sherlock’s cock deeper. “You have a nice cock too, not too big, not too thick, just right. I like how flared your head is, it feels so good right here.” John was making small circles, hitting the same point inside himself with loud enjoyment. “Hold my hips, keep me down, I want to work for it.” Sherlock did as instructed grasping John’s wriggling hips to keep him still. John fought it happily, his hard cock swaying back and forth as he bucked and twisted.

Sherlock was desperate suddenly, “John.” John groaned loudly and began to ride Sherlock furiously, grabbing his own cock and jerking wildly. “John!”

“Yeah, beautiful, my good boy, my pretty pet. Come inside me. I want to feel your pretty little cock fill me up.” John’s head was dropped back, sweat running down his neck as he moaned loudly, “So good, I needed this, yes, I needed this. Put your come in me, Sherlock, my lovely lad, my pretty little thing.” Sherlock couldn’t stop it. With an embarrassed grunt, he ejaculated deep inside of John, his orgasm intense with shame and bliss combined. He had never once had an orgasm with another person, but he couldn’t help himself now. John shouted just as his cock sprayed a jet of hot come all over Sherlock’s belly, “That’s it, oh fuck, that’s good, so good, fuck yes, fill my arse, so good!”

They took a bath together after. John sat behind Sherlock, happily shampooing Sherlock’s hair and washing him all over. Sherlock was reminded of when he’d been a child, how he’d shared baths with his dog Redbeard. It reinforced the knowledge that he was just an amusement for his master. Right now, John liked to use Sherlock for sex, but if he got tired of that, what would he use Sherlock for next? It didn’t bear thinking about.

The rest of the day was quiet. John read some more before calling in for dinner. He and Sherlock ate together in the dining room, and that’s when Sherlock met the housekeeper, Mrs Hudson. She didn’t seem shocked that her employer had purchased a slave-boy, nor that as a master, he was sharing his meal directly with his property. She made tea and brought dessert before taking their filthy dishes away. After their meal, John got Sherlock to sit on the floor in front of him while he watched movies, petting Sherlock’s curls, or bending down to kiss him deeply for a minute or so. When he was tired of that, John checked Sherlock’s arse to see if he needed another suppository, which he did. Sherlock was still quite sore and to his great relief, John wanted Sherlock to fellate him to sleep. They climbed into bed where John fucked Sherlock’s face a bit more gently than he’d done previously, but still very clearly using Sherlock only to get himself off before he dozed off. Sherlock was impressed with how many orgasms John seemed to require on a daily basis and understood in a new way how John would never have found the same relief with a regular partner or spouse. No one married to become a sex-toy, and that was exactly what John Watson wanted at his disposal.

Sherlock woke in the morning when John began fucking him. His master had somehow managed to finger him open a bit before climbing on. He was just sliding inside when Sherlock reached consciousness. John didn’t try to make it good for Sherlock at all, he just used Sherlock’s arse to get off in, fucking with short hard thrusts until he ejaculated. Without a word, John pulled out, yawned, and scratched his head as he went to shower up. Red-faced and humiliated all over again, Sherlock used some tissues to wipe the spunk from his hole. John came out, steaming slightly, “Go wash up. Breakfast in ten.”

Sherlock took a quick shower. He found another pair of pyjamas waiting for him and to his surprise, they were the correct size. Pulling the soft cotton over his body, he padded barefoot to the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was serving pancakes, “Good morning, Sherlock!” She was cheerful and unperturbed when John made Sherlock kneel beside him to be hand-fed from John’s own plate. Sherlock had never eaten so much food in his entire life and he felt bloated and uncomfortable. “I’m kind of proud of you, Sherlock. It can’t be easy to be where you are but you’re taking it all so well.” Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief when John affixed a new nicotine patch to his arm, relaxing as the chemicals began to sooth him. “I’m going to be gone all day, so as soon as you’ve gone to the bathroom, I want you to douche yourself clean. After that, I want you to wear the plug I have left for you in our bedroom. There’s lube in the top drawer. No orgasms! Put it in and leave yourself alone. I won’t be back until six tonight and I’m going to want to fuck you the second I get home. Be in bed and waiting because even if you don’t use the plug, I’m fucking you. Understood?”

Sherlock nodded. _What else could he do?_ There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. John was his only choice and Sherlock knew that no one, especially people like Mrs Hudson, would help him get away or assist him in any way. “If it’s alright with you, I would prefer not to have lunch. I don’t normally eat a large amount.”

John looked hard at him, considering the request. “You will have at least soup. It’s not heavy but you are seriously underweight, and you will use a lot of energy keeping up with your duties. Sex takes a lot of calories. However, I see your point. We will share breakfast and dinner every day, but you can opt out of lunch if you feel you really don’t need it. Understand me though, if I decide you need to eat, you will eat, or I will feed you, and you will not like that. I’m entirely prepared to treat you well if you abide by my requests. If you deliberately defy me, I will punish you, and I say deliberately because you will make many mistakes, and I understand that. I don’t punish for ignorance. I will correct you when necessary, but I will also punish you if you are being defiant or purposely difficult. I can still take you down several pegs if I feel you need it, so mark my word, pretty boy. Mind me, now.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock knelt in front of his master and gave him the intimate kiss he’d asked for previously without needing a command. He understood fully that he was there for John’s sexual pleasure, to be used and set aside whenever the whim struck his master. Tucking John’s cock away after he was done, Sherlock got to his feet and kept his eyes down until John left for work. Once he was alone, Sherlock sighed and wandered around the building for hours, bored to tears and aching everywhere. He considered what he’d learned about his master. John obviously preferred to start the day with anal sex. He was almost insatiable, Sherlock hadn’t met anyone with a sex-drive as high as John’s, certainly not a man of John’s years, at least. _He was like an adolescent boy!_ Sherlock sighed again before performing the required ablutions. When he was done, he went to fetch the lube so he could see to the rather large plug that John had set on the bedside table. _He was doing himself a favour by avoiding more tears and painful intercourse by doing what he was told_.

Throwing down a towel to sit on, Sherlock sat several different ways before he found a pose that was semi-comfortable enough for him. With red cheeks, he squirted a swirl of lube onto his hand and reached down to finger himself. It felt cold and strange, but he didn’t try to draw it out or enjoy himself. He just poked and prodded until he was able to fit three fingers into his hole. He felt stretched out but not in pain, not really. He found that the plug was quite heavy for its size and made sure to slick it heavily before trying to figure out the best way to insert it. He tried holding the base and pushing it inside himself, but he couldn’t quite get the widest part to go in. After fifteen minutes of pressing and twisting, his arm was sore, and his hole was aching more than ever.

Sherlock went to the kitchen bare arsed and uncaring. The plug had a wide base, so he sat it on one of the wooden kitchen chairs, slicked it with even more lube, and then sat down on it. With a pained groan and a shocked gasp, he allowed gravity to force his body downward, the large toy making a sucking sliding sound as it settled into place. Sherlock had to sit and breath for several minutes before the pain ebbed away enough for him to dare stand up. The heavy plug pulled at muscles he’d never been aware of and it made walking a whole new experience.

The wretched thing was wide enough to graze across his prostate, teasing him. Whenever Sherlock moved, it rocked back and forth. If he sat, it pressed firmly. If he stood, it dragged at his anus. In the end, Sherlock found that the only way to be comfortable was to lay in bed with a pillow beneath his hips. The plug pressed in via its own weight, but it was the least stimulating way to keep himself. Sherlock opened one of John’s medical journals and began to read. He made his way through a dozen articles before his eyes slid shut and he began to nap.

Sherlock woke when two cool hands began to massage his buttocks, “You are being such a good boy, my lovely pet. Look at you, exactly as I asked. You are doing so well, I might get you some proper clothes.” John tugged and twisted the plug, playing with it until Sherlock was entirely awake before he removed it. Sherlock gasped when John poured cold lube directly onto his gaping hole, “Look at how hungry that is, so naughty, so wet and just waiting for me.” John sounded ravenous as well as affectionate, “Spread your legs, Sherlock, show me your nice wet hole, put your finger where my cock is going to go.”

Sherlock pulled his knees further apart, reaching back with his hands to spread himself wide. He used his middle finger to trace the edges of his hole and silently gasped at the shiver of pleasure he felt. It made him angry. He didn’t want to enjoy what John did to him, but it was no use, “Sensitive, isn’t it? Answer me.”

“Yes, John, it’s very sensitive.”

“Did you come today?”

“No, John. I did as you commanded.”

“Good boy.” John got off the bed and stripped. The doctor’s cock was already hard, and he paused to add more slick to himself, “I really love your arse, it’s the prettiest one I’ve ever seen.” Without another word, John positioned himself behind Sherlock and pushed right on in, “Oh fuck, you’re so loose and wet.” John sat back on his heels and pulled Sherlock back so that his slave was sitting on his cock, “Bounce, Sherlock. Work your big beautiful arse over my cock, fuck me nice and hard.”

Sherlock did as he was told, making sure his buttocks jiggled as much as possible as he thrust his body down onto John’s. He attempted to do an inner clench and it made John groan appreciatively. Sherlock was sweating from the effort, and his thighs were burning. John had a lot of stamina, and it was taking a long time to get him off. Sherlock wasn’t even slightly aroused, his flaccid penis simply flopping around wherever it needed to as he worked.

“You’re good at this. I’m going to lay back, get back on my cock and ride me for a while. I like how your bum looks when you’re really going at it.” Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes with contempt but didn’t dare. Instead, he straddled John as soon as his master lay back. John enjoyed touching Sherlock’s back as Sherlock moved up and down, rocking his hips to make John’s cock slip in and out faster. “Spread your knees, lean forward as far as you can.” Sherlock did as commanded and gasped when John thrust up. The shock of unanticipated pleasure made his cock twitch. John did it again and kept doing it until Sherlock was as hard as he was. “That’s it my pretty boy, I’m going to make you come so hard.”

Sherlock didn’t want that. He didn’t want to feel good while John raped him. He had no choice though, John knew Sherlock’s body better than he did, using all his specialised skill to stoke Sherlock’s unwanted arousal until his slave was moaning steadily. “John, please.”

“Please what, pretty boy? Let you come? Stop? Come inside you?” _All of it!_ Sherlock needed to come, he wanted to stop, and he wanted to know it was over by feeling John come inside him. “Alright my beautiful pet, I’m going to come, I’m going to fill you up, but I’m not going to do it until after you make a mess of the bed.” John began to fuck Sherlock steadily, brushing against his prostate every few strokes until Sherlock was keyed up to a fevered pitch. “That’s it my beauty, come for me, come for me now!”

Sherlock felt the burn that had built in his belly slowly spill over until the pressure of it made him feel like his cock was ejaculating pure pleasure. He heard John’s ecstatic grunts behind him and didn’t care at all when John took him roughly by the hips to slam his way through his own orgasm. He couldn’t feel his transport right then, he was on a higher plane of existence.

He woke a short time later with John spooned to his back, “That was glorious, my pet. You are doing so well.” John took Sherlock to the shower where he washed his slave all over before getting Sherlock to do the same to him. Sherlock hated himself for giving in so easily, ashamed that his transport was so easily subverted by experienced physical manipulation. When they got out, Sherlock received another brand-new set of pyjamas, now accompanied by a long dark blue silk robe and a pair of heavy-soled and comfortable slippers. Dressed casually, John led Sherlock to the dining room where another elderly lady was helping Mrs Hudson serve an elaborate dinner, “Ladies.” John dismissed them as soon as they were done, “Sit, Sherlock. Have a bit of roast.”

Sherlock was miserable again despite the fact that his body felt amazing _. He was a slave. He couldn_ _’_ _t help being used but he at least could have held onto his self-respect by not enjoying what John did to him,_ “You’re having a bite of everything, tea as well.” John made sure Sherlock consumed at least two large bites of all the sides, and his entire portion of roast. Sherlock felt downcast, weak and filled with self-loathing, “It’s okay, Sherlock. I know you’re mad at yourself but look at it this way, you have no choice. It’s not your fault. I’m a bloody good doctor, believe me, I could make the straightest man in the world orgasm himself almost to death. You’ve got no chance at resisting what I can make your body feel. There’s no point feeling bad about it. I’m going to make you come so many times that you’ll hardly recall tonight. Just because I’m making myself feel good doesn’t mean that you’re not going to have more than a few good rounds right along with me.”

John wink saucily at Sherlock and it made him feel sick inside. John was obviously a very knowledgeable physician because he made Sherlock stand right in front of him, tugging his slave’s pyjama bottoms down. In no time at all, Sherlock was hard. He’d never had someone’s mouth on him before, but John just sucked him like he was dessert. The doctor had no trouble taking Sherlock down to the root, in fact, gagging himself on Sherlock’s cock seemed to arouse him, “I love doing this, but I think it’s my turn for a little ride around the sheets.”

John’s sexual appetites were beyond belief. Sherlock found himself laid back onto their bed. John only took a few minutes to finger himself before he was sitting on Sherlock. Clearly, John enjoyed the painful stretch being completed by his bedmate. He didn’t try to make it easy on himself, in fact, John seemed to be trying to hurt himself a little bit as he shoved his body downward. He might enjoy such activity, but Sherlock most certainly did not. Better John than him, so helpfully, Sherlock bucked up, “Fuck yes, do that, nice and hard, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bucked his hips upward again, forcing the last few inches of his penis into John’s behind, “You enjoy pain.”

“Giving and receiving, sometimes, yeah.” John was unashamed as he set a fast pace. Curious, Sherlock reached up and twisted John nipples without asking. His master groaned happily so Sherlock pinched them hard before letting go. Setting his feet flat on the mattress, he began to thrust upward with fierce determination, causing John to shout gratefully as he was pleasured. In only a few minutes, John orgasmed powerfully and even Sherlock couldn’t help but be momentarily swept away by the power of his own release.

They fell asleep together right after doing a quick clean-up, but Sherlock woke a little past midnight. John was deeply asleep, and Sherlock was filled with regret and self-loathing all over again. He crept out of bed, the twang of worry for leaving his master’s side not quite strong enough to keep him from slipping into his pyjamas and slippers. Carefully, Sherlock dug John’s wallet from his pocket and extracted some folding money. Silently, he ghosted downstairs, wrapping his robe tight before he stepped onto the street outside _. That had been surprisingly easy_. Sherlock looked around, but the streetlights were mostly useless, all the buildings mere insubstantial shadows, the streets, completely empty and devoid of both name or number to differentiate them. _Strange_. The door clicked quietly shut and Sherlock walked quickly away. He just needed to find a little something to sooth his frayed nerves. The streets all looked the same but after three or four blocks, he came across a small hole-in-the-wall shop that was still open. The golden glow of the shop’s lights cut into the dimness of the night, but only a bit. Sherlock had to argue with the man behind the window before he got what he needed.

A short but aimless time later, Sherlock sat back on the stoop of John’s large house. He was smoking his fourth cigarette and trying to figure out how to break back into the home he had not been given permission to leave. He thought about knocking on the door in the vain hope that Mrs Hudson would hear but John would not. The anxiety he had soothed with his first three cigarettes had entirely returned when he realised that he was outside without a key. _When John woke, he'_ _d be furious_. Sherlock was already trying to come up with some kind of excuse to explain why he'd not only stolen money from his master, but that he’d also run away, even if he had come right back, when the front door swung open. John glared blackly at Sherlock before reaching out and removing the butt of his smoke from his hand and throwing it onto the pavements. “Knees. Crawl back inside.”

Sherlock got to his knees, and obeyed, crawling inside with his head hung down. John made him remain that way all the way upstairs, forcing Sherlock to bruise his knees and scrap the palms of his hands as he made his way back to the bedroom. John extracted the remainder of the cigarette pack from Sherlock’s robe pocket, and took the lighter he had bought, as well as whatever change was left. “Strip.”

Sherlock wasn’t given a chance to offer even the weakest of excuses. John made Sherlock kneel on the floor beside their bed, “Scream if you need to, this is really going to hurt.” John had a leather belt in his hand and he used it with precision. Sherlock manfully attempted to keep his yelps inside, but John worked him over from his shoulders all the way down to his thighs, and Sherlock was ignominiously screaming in no time. Each strike was accompanied by a loud crack as the cured leather met bared flesh, preceding the shock of pain that immediately followed. John continued to strike Sherlock until he collapsed, laid out flat onto the floor. “You disappointed me so much, pet.”

Sherlock whimpered in pain. John had no mercy in him, spreading Sherlock’s blood-reddened arse cheeks wide before forcing his hard cock inside. Sherlock couldn’t scream any more, but he wept and tried to struggle as John took him harshly. His master fucked him roughly, not slowing at all until he ejaculated almost silently. When he was done, he forced Sherlock to kneel once more, tying his wrists to his ankles, “You will sit there while I finish my night’s rest. This is far from over, pet.”

Sherlock sat there in agony for hours, cramping and bleeding from the weals on his buttocks and back. The bruises were deep, and it felt as if the flesh on his back and legs was melting away, barely hanging on by their connective tissues. He needed to be still to keep from hurting himself, so, trembling with shock and pain, Sherlock stayed awake to make sure he didn’t tumble to the floor, to list to the side, or do anything at all that would cause his body more damage. It took a long time before the pain dulled into a steady uncomfortable throb, and Sherlock could breathe with relative ease. He fell into a light but unhappy doze for only a short amount of time. John woke up well after dawn and stood in front of Sherlock who was compelled to fellate his master as soon as his wrists were untied. John was wordless and rough, choking Sherlock with his cock purposefully until Sherlock nearly vomited again. When he was done, John showered and dressed. Snapping a collar around Sherlock’s throat, John dragged him naked from the house and into a cab.

In the cab, John made Sherlock keep his hands on his head, his fingers knitted through his curls. The bite of cold air on his damaged skin felt bitterly refreshing. It felt awful to be so completely exposed but John obviously did not care if Sherlock was embarrassed or in pain. The taxi dropped them off in front of a body-alteration shop, “Right ear, top.” John oversaw the procedure and Sherlock openly wept as a hole was punched into the cartilage of his ear and a small ownership tag was installed. “I tried to treat you right, slave. I told you to obey or to expect punishment. Disobey me again and I will have them punch another hole in you, and believe me, it will be somewhere you will not like. Are we understood?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s entire body was agony. His skin felt like he’d been flayed alive and his arse burned from the lack of lube.

“Captain.” John’s voice was cold and harsh.

“Yes, _Captain_.” Sherlock couldn't even explain to himself why he'd left the house, and merely for cigarettes, _and_ he’d lied to the vendor, saying he’d been sent to fetch everything for his master. It hadn’t been worth the cost he was paying. John didn’t even ask. They returned to Baker Street where John made Sherlock kneel in front of his chair, acting as a table while John had his tea and read for a while. The cup was hot on Sherlock’s back, and once, it tipped over, the tea still hot enough to sting but not burn. It was hours before John’s temper stabilized and he was cruel to Sherlock the entire time.

Sherlock was a weeping mess before dinnertime. He was filled with deep regret as well as growing fear. John’s temper was dark and remorseless. He slapped his hands on random parts of Sherlock’s body without warning, causing his lash marks to throb and ache. He still demanded sex too, making Sherlock suck him off but only after he fingered Sherlock’s raw aching hole until Sherlock cried all over again. When his humiliation was at its peak, John slowly relented. He allowed Sherlock to soak in a soothing oat bath after he inserted a very necessary suppository. Sherlock still needed to stand in order to eat his meal, and even though he had no appetite, Sherlock didn’t dare leave even a single mouthful on his plate. He drank his tea, the glass of water, and the glass of milk that John provided him. His belly was rounded and distended before John was done, and to Sherlock’s great relief, they just went to bed early. John let Sherlock sleep on the bed and didn’t touch him once through the night.

Sherlock was so stiff the next morning that he could barely move. John ran a hot bath for him, but Sherlock was in such agony that he almost couldn’t sit down at first. John’s voice was cold when he stated, “You’re clearly still able to enjoy your vices.” With that statement, he produced a large syringe filled with a thick crimson liquid. Sherlock felt his heart racing with fear as John administered a dose of _Red_. “This will make you sick to your stomach thanks to your little adventure yesterday.”

It certainly did. By noon, Sherlock was clutching his belly, and barely made it to the bathroom where he experienced both diarrhoea as well as vomiting. It was humiliating because John monitored the entire thing from the doorway. He was making notes on Sherlock’s medical chart, his face composed and cold. It took a long time before his body settled and by the time the dose had dispersed through his body, Sherlock’s lungs ached as he tried to expel every last trace of the cigarettes he’d managed to smoke the day before. He was teary and more miserable than he’d ever been in his life. He crawled toward John and curled up at his master’s feet, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t disobey you ever again. I’m sorry.”

The floor was icy, and the hard boards hurt Sherlock’s flayed back but he remained where he was until John bent over and ran a soothing hand though Sherlock’s curls, “Very well. It’s going to take at least two days before the after effects of that shot clear up, and then you will be required to continue the duties I expect from you. Go to the bedroom and get under the blankets. If you know what’s good for you, you will take this time to sleep and recuperate.”

Sherlock didn’t have any fight in him. He was weak, sore, and powerless. He was completely dejected because there was nowhere to escape. So many different parts of his body hurt for different reasons. He fell asleep crying but, in his dreams, he felt a gentle hand rubbing his head and tender lips kissing his cheek and brow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he could hear the words, “Come back to me. Please. It’s time to come back to me.”

Sherlock tossed and turned in the darkness. It felt strange to be in bed alone, he kept expecting to feel or hear John beside him, but his master wasn’t there. After a long while, he fell into a fitful sleep once more, and ghost kisses were pressed to his cheek and brow yet again. Sherlock opened his eyes but there was only the dimness of John’s room and no one else. He closed his eyes and could hear noise from outside the room. It was a steady beat, but it was growing faster and less rhythmic. Sherlock opened his eyes and peered around. He was still alone in John’s room, the bedding soaked with sweat. He felt ill again and wondered if he should be going to the loo before he made a mess of the sheets.

Sherlock’s eyes closed when his chest began to feel painfully tight. It was difficult to breathe. He knew there was a small percentage of individuals that had adverse reactions to _Red_. _He was probably one of them! He was going to die alone in his master'_ _s bed covered with shit and vomit and there was nothing he could do._ He felt consciousness leaving him but as the blackness began to take him, Sherlock could hear someone frantically shouting, “We’re losing him! Do something! Help him!”

 


	2. The Light

There was a loud thumping sound, irregular and halting but thunderous nonetheless. Sherlock felt a scorching pain in his chest as his entire body spasmed everywhere at once, all his muscles tightening simultaneously, forcing him to keep the screams inside. His skin felt like it was splitting all down his back and legs and the agony of not breathing wasn’t helped at all by the accompanying pain of the rest of his flesh. Sherlock felt like he was exploding from the outside in as if layers of himself were painfully peeling off to leave his organs exposed and vulnerable. He was suddenly aware of the thumping again. It was growing louder, more regular, and finally, it settled into a rhythmic throb.  _It was his heartbeat. He was listening to his own heartbeat_.

“Thank you. I don’t know what you did but thank you.” Sherlock felt like he knew the voice. His body instinctively relaxed to hear it, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He tried to look but there was a blinding whiteness to the world. More pain stabbed into his eyes and he slammed his lids shut once more, “Sherlock, it’s me. You’re going to be alright. It’s okay to keep your eyes closed. We’re dimming the lights now, it’s been a while since you’ve been awake, so we don’t want to hurt you. In case you’re wondering, you’re in a special bed, face down, kind of like a massage table.”

Tender touches danced lightly all over him and where they landed, Sherlock found that he could recognise the sensations evoked where once there was nothing. Someone was touching his arms, his legs, his shoulders, his neck.  _He knew his parts_. He was lying face down but supported _. Massage bed? Why?_  He felt drained, wiped out, and he was carrying an odd kind of stiff tenseness in his back. He knew he was constricted somehow but for some reason, he wasn’t worried about it, “Don’t move too fast, or at all if you can help it. You’ve been under for a very long time; your muscles are weak.”  _What? Why? Had the belt marks on his back become infected?_  Sherlock felt a very soft, warm, and quite damp cloth being applied to his eyes, “You’re a bit crusty there, be patient, almost done.”

Sherlock found it very relaxing as whoever it was cleaned the sleep from his lashes. As soon as the touches stopped, Sherlock slowly allowed his eyes to open, lifting and turning his head toward the voice as he looked for the first time, a soft smile of gratitude on his face. The smile dropped away as pure horror and shock jolted him when he recognised the person tending him.  _It was John. His master was here. John was going to punish him some more, and rape him again, and he already hurt so much. Was that the real reason for making him sleep arse up? No. No. No!_ Sherlock panicked. He tried to jerk away from his owner, but he could barely move. Weakly, he mewled in abject terror, scraping his arms against the sides of the bed to remove the things poking into his arms, to rid himself of the wrappings that covered his whole body.  _He had to get away! He couldn’t let John hurt him anymore!_  “Sherlock! Stop, stop struggling! You’re hurting yourself. Mycroft! Mycroft! Get in here and help me! Call a nurse! Get the doctor back! Sherlock’s having some kind of seizure!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened when a tall thin man almost ran through the door. His hair was rumpled when it was obviously accustomed to being smooth, and there were dark circles beneath eyes that Sherlock knew, and he was dressed in a three-piece suit that looked expensive but wrinkled and saggy in the knees from being worn too long. The sight of his face made memories rush up, utterly overwhelming him. Eyes rolling back, Sherlock felt his body shudder and twist when he lost complete control of himself as his brain reset _. Mycroft was his brother. John wasn't his master, he was his best friend. John cared for Sherlock and would never hurt him. Mycroft spent all his time looking out for Sherlock, he only wanted to protect him, he'd never allowed John near if he thought John was a danger to him. What was happening? What had happened? What was real?_

It was dark and silent for a long time. When Sherlock finally found his way back to the light, he could hear several people speaking softly, “We told you that the treatments were highly experimental and that there could be unexpected side-effects. Your brother was in an induced coma for nearly three months to promote the healing of his limbs, another highly experimental treatment! There was no way for us to predict how he might have been mentally affected by it all. We have no idea at all what kind of life he’s been living in. For all we know he could have spent the last several weeks having the time of his life.”

“He certainly didn’t look like he was having the time of his life.”  _John. John was angry and worried at the same time._  “He looked terrified. He looked like he’d seen the most horrible thing ever, and it was me he was looking at!  _Me!_  What do I do? I don’t want him to be frightened of me, what if he hurts himself again? He nearly tore out his lines out and he should barely be able to move. I thought I was helping, but it’s obvious that I’m not.”

“Untrue, Doctor Watson. Sherlock has responded positively to your presence dozens of times. If not for your constant vigil, my brother would have died almost immediately.  _You_ are why he lives.” Mycroft sounded exhausted but certain.

“Then why was he so scared to see me?” John sounded tearful, “You saw it yourself. He went from being nearly asleep to almost hyperventilating in mere seconds. He just had a heart attack! He died on the table earlier today! He can’t take a shock, I can’t be here if I’m hurting him.”

Sherlock felt the conflict in his mind swell up for a moment but once again, reality won over.  _Heart attack? That explained several things he was feeling, the strain and exhaustion._ Things didn't overwhelm him this time. He now understood he'd been trapped in a nightmare _. Slavery wasn't real in the UK. John had not bought him from a cheap auction house. John had not raped and hurt him. John was his best friend, his protector, his closest confidant. John was the one person that Sherlock cared about so much that he would have willingly gone into slavery to someone else if it meant his friend could be free and safe, and Sherlock knew John would do the same for him, no matter how he might suffer. John could not leave or remove himself, not now, not when the nightmare was finally over_. Summoning every bit of strength, he had left, Sherlock opened his mouth and managed to croak out a single word, “John.”

“Sherlock!” Despite his concerns, John didn’t hesitate to come right over. Carefully, he covered one of Sherlock’s hands with his, “Don’t move, Sherlock. You’re recovering from serious burns as well as some other rather unpleasant injuries. You’re here, in London. You’re safe.”

Sherlock felt even more tired just taking in this information. “How long? What happened,” he managed to get out.

Mycroft stepped forward, “Altogether it’s been twelve, almost thirteen, weeks. You’ve been kept in a medically induced coma. You’ve had skin grafts on your back, lab-grown, and you’ve been the subject of various untested procedures. Desperate measures, brother.”

“What…did…you…give…me?” Speaking was so difficult, his throat felt raw and sore, he’d likely been intubated until recently, but these were vital things he needed to know.

“An experimental serum to help accelerate the healing. Do you remember the explosion at Baker Street?” Sherlock had a vague recollection of light and heat but that was it. “You and John were blown out of your rooms by a detonation meant to kill you, _the Patience grenade_ I believe it was named. John wasn’t badly hurt, mostly due to the almost impossibly safe landing he managed because he landed in the back of a furniture store delivery lorry filled with mattresses. You, unfortunately, caught the brunt of the blast along your back and legs, and you landed on the hood of the same vehicle. John wears many layers of clothing and they burned before his back was seriously scorched but your clothing was too fine to withstand the heat and your burns were significant. Parts of the windows and their casings were also ejected, and you, unfortunately, were the recipient of many jagged pieces of wood, in some rather sensitive areas.”

John looked away as he tried to explain, “Your bottom, er, took a bit of, um, well…”

“It’s all completely healed,” Mycroft said reassuringly, “ _Another_ experimental procedure and medicines that did the trick. John was in charge of all follow-up care.”

It didn’t take long for Sherlock’s brain to connect the dots. _If his backside had undergone serious damage and if John had been the person to lay hands on him for treatment purposes, then he must have begun to unconsciously correlate those increases in discomfort with what amounted to logic if erroneous deductions regarding cause and effect ergo, John had delivered medical treatments which were for Sherlock’s benefit yet painful and therefore in his mind, it was translated as sessions where he was being sexually abused by John._ It was staggering to realize, and he deflected the need to process it completely by trying to make light of it, “You stuck an untested compound up my arse?” Sherlock found speaking easier now.  _That explained a lot about parts of his nightmare_.

John giggled and then looked upset with himself for laughing. Mycroft’s tone was entirely serious, “Yes. Thanks to that decision you are not being outfitted with a mechanical device to help you…”

“I  _understand_ , brother.” Sherlock got the picture. He didn’t need more descriptive prose about it. He was extremely tired now. Without meaning to, Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed once more. This time, however, he felt completely at peace, safe and relaxed. He slept a deeply healing sleep for the first time in a long time.

The beeping of his monitors woke him a long time later, or perhaps it was the snoring. John was in a squishy chair that was pushed up close to Sherlock’s hospital bed. John was sitting right up, his eyes tight shut, and his snore was discrete and small, but every few seconds he snorted a tiny bit whenever his head tilted too far forward. Sherlock watched as the sleeping doctor snapped upright and resumed sleeping quietly until his head sagged forward once more and he snorted himself upright once again.

Sherlock realized that he'd watched John sleep for nearly thirty minutes, and it had been both comforting as well as relaxing.    _He needed to talk with John, seriously talk_. Taking a careful minute, he looked himself over as best he could. He was swathed like a mummy in reels of cotton bandages. They were loosely wrapped all over him and gingerly, he tried to move his limbs. His ankles were tightly bandaged, and Sherlock could feel the pads taped to his back. Everything felt like his skin was too tight, inflexible, and reluctant to allow him motion. He didn’t push it, not wanting to damage what did indeed look like successful grafts before they were entirely healed. He needed to find out how much time had passed, and what had been done to him.

“You’re awake.” John was sitting there, eyes open, his gaze fixed on Sherlock’s face. A series of emotions flickered across the smaller man’s face before settling on relief. His smile was huge, and John’s eyes twinkled with happiness when he said, “Hello, Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“Better, John.” Sherlock blinked, “I was inside a rather awful dream for a very long time, John, a terrible, awful, sickening dream. I’m grateful to be awake.”

John looked concerned, shifting closer to take Sherlock’s hand in his. He moved carefully, touching Sherlock with delicacy and the small motion made Sherlock’s heart feel strange. Anxiety ratcheted upward, and his sore heart beat frantically for a moment. He was simultaneously horrified and thrilled that John was so close. Sherlock had visions of himself attempting to jerk his hand away but instead, his entire body went limp with relief at the contact, his transport completely out of tune with his mind. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you alert again. Your eyes…” John trailed off for a moment before he continued, his gaze soft and serious at the same time, “I’ve missed seeing your eyes. I thought I’d never get to look into them again.”

Sherlock watched the play of feelings dance across his friend’s face. John was always internally complex, and Sherlock was lacking in emotional intelligence about these sort of things, but somehow, Sherlock understood something  _profound_ at this moment and he blurted his discovery out without thinking, “You love me.”

“I do,” John admitted without hesitation, certain and unashamed. “I can’t deny it to anyone, not anymore, not after this.” John looked down, “All this time, every single day, all I have wanted was for you to wake up so I could let you know how much I feel for you. I’m not interested in living my life without you, Sherlock, so if you could do us both a favour and stop nearly dying all the time, I’d really appreciate it.”

Sherlock tried to smile but his face was as sore as the rest of him. He felt lightheaded as if he could drift right up to the ceiling from the emotional buoyancy. _The nightmare was over, and he was in heaven. He wasn’t disoriented anymore, he was firmly rooted in a state of being that would nourish his soul for eternity._ “I’ll give that a go, Watson, especially if it means I get to have more of my soldier in my life.”

John smiled, his eyes filled with hopeful tenderness, “Yeah?”  _Beautiful John._  Sherlock’s mind palace was stuffed full of data that detailed how very real John was, how stoic he could be, how full of life, laughter, and yet how enduring he was, how steadfast, how unyielding, yet ofttimes selfless. He was a contradiction and an enigma in so many ways, John was never boring and always a surprise, and that’s why Sherlock could love him right back without worrying that they might not have a very satisfying future together.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock wanted to assure John of his feelings in return, but it was too soon after the nightmare for him to be comfortable saying such things. “There’s more but I’m not ready yet.” Even if his mental state weren’t completely fragile right now, which it was, his body was a mess. He felt secure in the knowledge that John cared for him and would stay with Sherlock while he healed. John was someone he could utterly rely upon. When Sherlock was a bit more rested, he would be able to articulate the nightmare he’d lived in his mind, that way, if they somehow managed to move toward intimacy, John would know if Sherlock’s possible reluctance wasn’t because of him.

“It’s okay, it’s all okay,” reassured John, “It’s enough for me to know you’ve woken up. For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry that I frightened you when you first opened your eyes. You don’t need to explain anything, not until you think you really want to, I’m just…I’m just very happy right now. I’ve missed you, you bugger, stop doing that, okay?”  _Perfect John._  He was always so considerate of Sherlock’s feelings. He had an uncanny knack for understanding where Sherlock was sometimes, unthinkingly telling Sherlock exactly what he needed to hear when he needed to hear it.

John’s eyes were red and damp with emotion and Sherlock felt something twang inside his chest. There was still fear there, certainly, and a bit of doubt too, but his memories of _John Watson_ , _best friend_ , were far more numerous that memories of _John Watson, slave_ _master_. It would take some time to overcome his mental trauma, but if it meant having a proper relationship with John, a relationship he now recalled wanting desperately for years, then Sherlock swore to himself that he would do anything necessary to make it happen. First, he needed to heal. His body ached, and Sherlock found it strange to be grateful that he’d nearly been blown to bits by a bomb rather than hurt by the man beside him. “I’m so tired, John.”

“Rest yourself, love, just close your eyes and rest.” Sherlock’s heart thrilled at the endearment. “I’ll be right here. I won’t leave. I’m watching over you. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” Sherlock felt completely at ease for once. Reality was far better than dreams. He trusted John with his life, with his secrets, with his weaknesses. He’d tell John everything, but after he slept. He’d never felt so tired in his entire life. John held Sherlock’s hand gently once again, “Sleep, Sherlock. Everything is all right. You’re safe. I’m here, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from closing his eyes, even though he was anxious that he might slip back into the nightmare, but he didn’t. His dreams were disjointed and hazy, normal dreams, and they faded away after he woke hours later. John was sleeping on the chair again, only this time he was sagging everywhere, his mouth gaping open as he snored raucously. Sherlock felt his mouth twitch into a smile as John rasped at the ceiling, a small string of drool escaping the corner of his mouth to pool on his shirt. It was disgusting and beautiful at the same time. He swallowed a bit to clear his throat and then tried something out, “Darling?”

John snorted himself awake, “Wha…Sherlock?” John blinked himself away, a small crooking smile adorning his tired looking face, “Did you just call me  _darling_ or was I having a really great dream?”

“Both?” Sherlock felt his heart fill with contentment at the happiness on John-his-friend’s face. Still, for a dark moment, Sherlock recalled _John-his-master_ , and his smile dropped away.  _This man was not that John. This was the real John. His John. His best friend. John loved him, he'd said so. He would never hurt Sherlock like that, not ever._ Closing his eyes, Sherlock turned his head away, not wanting to confuse memories of what had happened in his mind with the memory he was storing of the man who stood next to him right now, “I just need a moment.”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed but he felt John’s fingers slowly settle next to his and he clutched them.  _John was here to help him and not hurt him. John wasn't going to let anyone do anything to Sherlock that was harmful. Sherlock was in pain from an explosion and the medical procedures, not from a savage beating and multiple rapes from a man who had him completely at his mercy_. “We weren't certain the skin grafts would take but they did,” John spoke casually as if they were just chatting, but Sherlock knew from how carefully John was holding his hand that the doctor was aware that Sherlock was in distress.  _He was diverting him with information! Clever John_. “Mycroft went through every channel he had access to. Apparently, one of his hobbies is to collect the acquaintance of people who are extraordinarily talented at different things. One researcher was growing panels of experimental flesh, sort of a universal donor kind of thing, I’ve got his papers already loaded onto your laptop if you want all the technical details.”

 _Of course, he did! Was John mad?_ Sherlock had never been so excited to be wounded. _He was a legitimate experiment in his own right! Hadn’t there been other treatments that were also experimental? Students would be reading about his arse in medical journals for years to come! His skin was lab-grown!_  “I might glance them over some other time.” _John could put the laptop on the floor beneath Sherlock’s bed! He could get a wireless mouse and use it to move through the document. If he had his laptop anyway, he could browse Lestrade’s files, maybe solve a crime or two instead of just lying about unproductively healing!_

“Interesting side effect; your back no longer has any scars.” Sherlock didn’t know how to process that piece of information. The rough treatment he’d endured in Serbia and other places had left what he’d considered lifetime reminders of mistakes to never make a second time. “Well, all the scarred tissue burned away, and your skin grafts healed literally without a wrinkle. Your back is flawless once again, or it will be. It’s a bit red where the old skin meets the new skin, but even that’s supposed to fade within the week.”

“What about my arse?” John giggled tearily and Sherlock adored every second of it. His entire body ached, and he was so happy because of John’s ridiculous laughter and how that John was so relieved to be joking around with him that he was almost crying. “Is it still beautiful?”

John laughed outright, wiping away the tears that fell down his cheek and into his smile, “It’s as breath-taking as it ever was. Fixing it took some fancy manoeuvres in OR, or so I read about after. They wouldn’t let me in to assist or even watch, but I was allowed to be in charge of the aftercare.” John explained the muscular and organ damage that Sherlock had experienced, not hiding a single step from his genuinely fascinated flatmate. Sherlock was grateful that John didn’t talk down to him during the rundown of procedures. He just laid out the facts, making sure to include every single gruesome detail so that Sherlock knew everything possible that had happened to his transport while he was unconscious. It was beyond a miracle that Sherlock had an arse left at all, or that it had already nearly completely healed with no trace of the injury expected to remain permanently.

He felt his mind recalibrating itself, taking in all the new information, adjusting for the time that had passed. He was still working on leaving behind the vividness of the nightmare, though. Logically he knew that his mind had created a construct to deal with the physical pain he had subconsciously experienced despite the heavy sedatives and had made him live in that construct until he was finally allowed to awaken. John was not to blame for any mental damage that had occurred, but regardless, it was there. Sherlock had been afraid of John,  _viscerally_ afraid, and though it had been inside a dream, he knew that same fear lived within him still. It would devastate John to learn of it, but Sherlock steeled himself to tell his friend the truth. Nothing but anguish would come from trying to hide or deny such a thing, their past together was already a patchwork of pain simply because they kept hiding things from one another. It was time for a new beginning.

John had just finished explaining the feeding tube, and that intubation had been required more than once when Sherlock interrupted him, “I lived a different life while I was gone, it was horrible, John.” Sherlock moved his fingers, just a bit, and John did exactly as hoped; John held Sherlock’s hand tenderly with both of his and ceased talking. “I was a slave, your slave. You used me for…for sex.” Sherlock found that lowered his head and closed his eyes, blocking all sight of John. He couldn’t stop from hearing the soft but sharp inhalation of air from John, “There are many details, John, but what you need to know the most is that while I was trapped in this situation inside my head, I had no idea of who you were. In the dream, we were strangers. The world we were in allowed for you to have me and hurt me and take me and u…u…use me.” Sherlock found it hard to breathe, “You raped me, in my dream, so many times, John. It hurt. It was degrading. Humiliating. It was cold and awful, and I felt terrible things while it was happening. You punished me, in the end, a strap.” He paused to collect himself, “Everything that happened to me out here was re-translated by my brain and filtered into that dark place.”

“That’s why you were so scared when you woke up because, in your mind, I’m some kind of monster.” John sounded blank. He had let go of Sherlock’s hand too, and Sherlock could feel the warmth by his side moving further away, “I’m sorry. I’m making you…I’m sorry.”  _John’s voice was fading, he was leaving!_

“Stay!” Sherlock found it difficult to shout but he managed to raise his voice a little, at least, “You will stay and hear me out.” John stopped moving so Sherlock flapped his hand as imperiously as he could manage. John barked out a pained-sounding laugh but obediently came close to wrap his gentle fingers around those same commanding digits. “In the  _dream_ ,” he stressed, “You were the opposite of everything I know about you. When I finally woke, it took a little while for the power of that nightmare to fade enough for me to recall the true you, the John Watson standing beside me right now, the John Watson that I _care_ about, the one that I _need_ , the one who am I _endlessly_ grateful for. Don’t leave me, John. I need you to stay here, beside me, to keep me safe.”

John stayed. In the hours and days that followed, he stayed, listening to Sherlock haltingly confess his nightmare. He had to do so in small pieces, the whole story far too unsettling to speak out loud all at once. He told John between meals, after his check-up, after his last intake of meds for the day, or whenever they could be alone together for a minute or two. John was many times upset, both because of what Sherlock had thought he had experienced and also because it had been  _his_ dream counterpart had been the aggressor. “I could never hurt you like that.” John looked like he wanted to curl up into himself and disappear.

“I  _know_ , John, that's what I'm trying to explain. You _need_ to know what happened in my head. What if my wires are crossed now? What if I'm supposed to react one way but because of the nightmare, I react another? You know from personal experience that you can't predict how a person will react to trauma, physical or otherwise. I was a mess before this but now … now, John, I don't know who I am.”  _Sherlock had short nightmares during the times he slept these days, but John always woke him before they went on too long._

John had grown bolder since Sherlock had first awakened. Hand-holding was a frequent occurrence, even in company. Sherlock found he needed that anchor, he needed to be connected to the constant warmth and security of his friend. John often stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, soothing the tension away wherever he could safely touch. To keep strangers from crowding the healing and alert detective, John changed Sherlock’s dressings himself, removing bandages with such care that the detective never experienced one unnecessary twinge of pain.

During the many consults he was required to endure, Sherlock sat mutely on the bed while the doctors talked directly to John. The soldier let them continue on in that manner for a couple of minutes before he stopped them with a sharp gesture, “You know he’s awake and that he’s a genius, right? You don’t need to filter your diagnosis through me, he understands all the big words and can probably cite more related cases than you can.” After that, the specialists spoke right to Sherlock, and each time it happened, Sherlock felt warm inside.

John then worked out a deal with the doctors and Mycroft, arranging special deliveries so that the soft meals that Sherlock was required to consume were made up of foods that Sherlock didn’t mind. No energy was lost in fighting to get dinner in, or flat-out refusal to eat. The first time it had happened, Sherlock had looked hard at John, wondering what he was about. “I know you who are,” said John, carefully feeding Sherlock one soft spoonful at a time until he was done. After the meal had been cleaned away, Sherlock stretched his neck a bit and turned his face in what he hoped was an appropriately demanding gesture. John smiled before he leaned over and carefully helped Sherlock lift and turn his head just enough to kiss his lips, “You’re the person I care for the most.” Sherlock smiled, having gotten what he’d wanted, definite romantic physical contact.

Sherlock had to remain in his odd bed for two more weeks before he would finally be able to test his ability to walk about. He’d spent the first week flinching hard whenever John moved even slightly, mentally chastising himself for making the doctor feel bad over his own imagination-based fears and working hard every hour he was awake to overcome the unanticipated conditioning from his protracted nightmare. Sherlock couldn’t wait to be home and shed of this phase of his recovery. He understood deeply why he’d been kept in a medical coma for most of his initial recuperation. There was no way he’d have the patience to just lay there for months, especially when John wasn’t able to relax around him. The decision his medical team had made saved them all extra weeks of further rehabilitation because Sherlock was positive he would have tried to escape more than once and likely hurt himself even more in the process. This way, he was well on his way to recovery with only mild chances of setting himself back via imprudent choices.

It didn’t matter though because he seemed to want was to be near John, alone, and John seemed to want the same. Due to the injuries, the amount personal care that was in the hands of strangers was embarrassing, even though John did his best to do everything himself. Having someone literally willing to wipe your arse for you out of love was a very humbling thing. John had apparently quit his job at the clinic to remain by Sherlock’s side day and night, his devotion to his best friend clear to absolutely everyone. Since they shared a blood-type, Sherlock was only partially surprised to hear that the transfusions he’d required had mainly come from his best friend. John was within Sherlock on a cellular level, sustaining him. It was a heady realization.

Having heard the treatment that Sherlock’s subconscious had exposed as his deepest fear, John Watson seemed more determined than ever to prove to Sherlock how devoted and gentle he could be, if given a chance. The flinches became more infrequent until they finally stopped entirely. While it was incredible to have his every need lovingly catered to by John, Sherlock was similarly desirous of an opportunity to prove his more-than-amiable feelings for his good doctor. _Even something simple like a hug, the most genial of public displays, was impossible to manage until he could finally get up! A single momentary kiss was not enough._

In the meantime, John, being as accommodating as possible, had not only set up Sherlock’s laptop beneath the bed where he could see it, but had also connected an ergonomic keyboard to it, one that split into two halves, now placed very conveniently at each of Sherlock’s hands so that he could type. John had needed to use some medical tape to secure them there, but he had. Now Sherlock could keep up with the news about scientific breakthroughs, browse the archives of a variety of research facilities, adjust information on _The Science of Deduction_ , and even took care of his emails. He solved a few cases for the police, a kind of mental dessert that he treated himself with because solving crime was really better when he was ambulatory and had John by his side. They had loads of free time while Sherlock slowly healed, so John purchased a dual audio jack and with a pair of headphones, introduced Sherlock to online streaming movies. They chuckled their way through several, holding hands, and just being together. Sherlock had never experienced such unfettered happiness.

Several professionals and experts examined his back, bum, and legs before he was finally allowed to sit up. It did not feel good, not at all, so Sherlock was allowed to stand. Sherlock appreciated how his best friend always managed remain right within eye-shot no matter how many other doctors were in the room. It comforted him greatly and kept him from becoming too agitated. The crowd of specialists that regularly attended him eventually reached the consensus that Sherlock could be released into John’s care by the end of the next week, providing that there weren’t any complications for finally being ambulatory.

Sherlock wasn’t allowed to do more than walk sedately, needing support from John while he did so because his muscles were like jelly, _and_ , he still needed to prove that being in the hospital was no longer necessary. In short, Sherlock had to be able to use the loo for sitting down reasons without serious discomfort. He was confident he could do it. His arse was still very sore, but a good kind of sore, an “it’s mostly healed but still very tender” kind of sore. Anything beyond that would keep him where he was.

It took days before he was able to prove his ambulatory skills. John patiently assisted his friend in doing stretches and gentle strength building exercises now that such movement would no longer risk his health. It was frustrating, but Sherlock had been on his belly for far too long, he was weak everywhere, but not so undone that he wasn’t eager to go use the loo more or less on his own, sitting on the specially installed padded ring while John hovered anxiously outside the door. Several unpleasant but bearable minutes later, Sherlock was triumphantly washing his hands, tottering out on shaky legs, but firmly on the way to being independent once again. With a crooked grin of total glee, Sherlock wobbled over to John and nearly collapsed in his willing arms, “Take me home, John.”

It still took two days more than he was prepared to deal with before Sherlock was released into John’s care. Physical therapy sessions were organised, and dietary regimes were designed, and the gradual cessation of all his meds was planned. John reluctantly left Sherlock’s side only long enough to coordinate with Anthea regarding clothing for their invalid. One short shopping trip later, Sherlock was garbed in loose flowing clothes that wrapped comfortably around his recuperating body but gave the appearance that Sherlock was dressed for a lovely walk about the park. Mycroft arranged for his best car to deliver the pair to Baker Street, considerately providing special cushions for Sherlock’s side of the vehicle.

John had already thanked the elder Holmes so effusively for all that he had provided that Mycroft had quite seriously told them to never mention it again. “I can earn money easily, and find resources with little trouble, but I will never be able to replace my little brother, Doctor Watson. You have saved him many times by being his friend. What I have provided are mere trappings, tools, if you will. It is because you are here that Sherlock wants to live at all.”

Blunt talk was entirely necessary when it came to John and Sherlock’s personal relationship. Both of them had danced around their feelings for so many years that breaking old habits would be as much work as Sherlock’s mental and physical therapy. Both men were dedicated to the goal, which made it easier. John blushed a little to hear Mycroft speak so plainly but he didn’t argue. “All I want is to have the chance to make him happier than he has been. I don’t deserve it, not at all, but until he bodily throws me out of 221 B Baker Street, that’s where I’ll be, looking after him.”

Sherlock was deeply moved by John’s declaration, especially when they arrived. This was a significant moment for Sherlock, literally the first step in overcoming the dark images that he’d been trapped in for so long. In the nightmare, Baker Street had been made of formless shadows, a mere hint of the vibrant neighbourhood that existed in reality. Speedy’s was doing brisk business as John guided him inside their entryway, and for once, Mycroft carried in Sherlock’s and John’s small suitcases himself instead of making his driver do it, “The therapists we’ve chosen will be expecting you as soon as tomorrow afternoon at 2 PM. My car will bring you there if you require it.”

“We can find our way there, especially if Sherlock can keep using that donut pillow you got him.” John had brought it up from the car and had set it on Sherlock’s chair. Gingerly, the detective sat down, testing out how long his back and bottom could deal with the pressure of his weight on him. At the moment, he felt perfectly fine.

“As you wish, John. I’ve arranged for a grocery delivery service. Mrs Hudson can sign for it if you are not here, but be aware, they will be bringing food right to your kitchen and stowing it away for you. Please pay back their courtesy by not having anything too untoward on display?”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing experiments for a few more hours, brother, but if you need my promise, fine. No body parts or overly disturbing experiments on display until they are done with me.” Sherlock was already exhausted from the short trip home and the walk up the stairs. Seventeen steps had felt like a hundred. His thighs were burning from the effort and he needed a nap already.

The moment Mycroft left, John helped Sherlock right out of the chair and right into bed. It felt decadently good to lay on his side upon his own luxurious bed. Mrs Hudson had clearly laundered everything. His duvet hadn’t been this fluffy and odourless since he purchased it, and his sheets were so crisp he half expected them to crackle. John let him sleep entirely naked, another decadence, and with a small smile, Sherlock dozed off right away even though it was barely noon. He woke three hours later with John by his side. Sherlock was grateful. Knowing John was always close by kept him steady and feeling safe. John continuing to watch over his sleep, even though they were finally home, only made Sherlock feel good.

The doctor had stripped down to his vest, pants, and socks, but was sleeping on top of the covers. Sherlock swallowed hard as he witnessed the verification of a dream detail – John was extremely well endowed, terrifyingly so. For a brief moment, Sherlock was tempted to leave the bed, to hide in the bathroom, to be anywhere but where that monstrous penis was. Sherlock made himself look at John’s face, his real face, and reminded himself that this John was no danger to him. He would never hurt Sherlock as he had inside the nightmare. In a flash, all the mistrust and fear was gone, replaced with a deep affection because John was snoring in an inelegant way, and managed to appear chilled. “John, get under.”

Still mostly sleeping, the doctor floundered around until Sherlock was able to tug away the duvet enough to flip it over his friend. John resumed snoring loudly and sprawled as much as he could. Sherlock shuffled closer and carefully lay his head on John’s shoulder, draping his arm over John’s waist, before closing his eyes. He drifted in a kind of hazy twilight for a long time before he fell all the way asleep once more, the fingers of John’s hand somehow buried in his curls. It made him sleep deeply for hours, and though Sherlock woke alone, he immediately perceived that John was occupied within the bathroom. He felt rested and even a bit hungry, “Takeaway? I feel like a good helping of _Chicken Tikka Masala_.”

“Good try, love. One bland mashed meal, coming up.” Sherlock grumbled a bit on principle but secretly thrilled at being openly referred to as John’s _love_ , and had to privately admit that his good soldier had worked wonders with the slow roasted root veg that he mixed together. It was gently flavourful, filling, and warm. Sherlock felt like dozing again as soon as they’d eaten, but instead of sending him to bed again, John spread a spare blanket out on the sofa and cuddled a non-resistant Sherlock while they watched truly appalling telly.

Sherlock had never experienced such unabashed coddling, not since he’d been a new-born infant, and even then, not for long. Mummy wasn’t one for extended physical contact, handing Sherlock and Mycroft off to their  _au pair_ as soon as she could to facilitate her return to the Society life she preferred. Papa was absent most of the time and when he was around, he seemed bemused by his children, unable to understand the torrent of questions and complaints that poured out because both boys knew they’d only have their father’s attention for a quarter of an hour at best before he disappeared for weeks of work yet again. Mycroft did his best to give Sherlock attention, but he was as crippled as his brother when it came to parsing out exactly how to show his feelings. Now, John was giving his best friend an experience in affection that Sherlock had always thought had been a fictional construct and not a potential reality.

John wouldn’t let Sherlock lift a finger. In a different time, Sherlock might have become immediately bored with nothing to do, but after his recent experiences, Sherlock chose to subsume himself in John’s attentions. His soldier fussed, and petted, and doted on Sherlock day and night. He made sure that everywhere Sherlock needed to sit or recline was fresh, clean, and as comfortable as he could make it. He prepared simple foods to nourish Sherlock’s healing body and provided comfort even in the night-time now that he had agreed to share his resting hours with his  _more-than-flatmate_. John never made a single untoward move, curling protectively around his charge, his strong arm wrapped around Sherlock’s thin waist, his hips pressed innocently tight to Sherlock’s all through their dreaming hours. It was lovely and soothing and exactly what Sherlock needed. John gave unstintingly of himself and Sherlock was amazed and overwhelmed to be the recipient of it all.

It was Sherlock who brought things to a head, as it were. Mornings were becoming a bit of an issue now that he was consistently waking up in a completely tumescent state. At first, he was able to ignore his need, willing his unwanted erection away. He’d never had much of a sex drive, and usually managed to find time in the past to masturbate whenever his body refused to demand it. In his current situation, he didn’t know how to deal with them. Wanking in bed was out of the question. He could do it in the shower, but John would almost certainly come to check on him if he began to moan and moan he would. He’d always been a bit noisy, restricting his private time to hours when the flat was otherwise empty. Unfortunately, these days John never left him alone long enough to have a bit of a sneaky wank, and after four consecutive days of a growing and continually unsatisfied need, Sherlock was getting a bit desperate. This morning, his cock was thick, throbbing, and almost pulsing with frustrated desire. Without thinking, Sherlock reached down and gave himself a sleepy stroke, exhaling roughly as a shiver of pleasure rippled through him.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was thick with sleep. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, realizing that he’d woken John up by moving his arm. They were spooned up tight, as per usual, and John’s forearm was right beneath it. He could probably tell what Sherlock had just unconsciously done. His soldier peered over and looked down, biting Sherlock’s bicep playfully, “Oh, I see.” Sherlock picked up John’s hand and placed it low on his waist, but no closer to his erection than that. He felt John’s hand rubbing against his hip, instinctively keeping his caresses local and not exploratory, “I can easily go and just give you a bit of time alone, or…” John’s hand wandered over to Sherlock’s hip, “How would you feel about me helping you with that?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to feel.  _On one hand, he was hard as hell. On the other hand, just thinking about sex with John frightened him_. In his mind, it was inextricably linked with pain and humiliation. Logically, Sherlock knew that  _his_  John would never hurt him, but his illogical fear wasn’t having any of it. His erection began to shrivel away, “It’s not a problem,” he said in a studiously offhand way, “Just a momentary urgency.”

“Tea?” John didn’t seem perturbed and Sherlock was relieved that John wasn’t pressuring him. After he nodded, John rubbed his hip one more time and rolled out of bed. Sherlock noticed John was introducing different touches to their everyday interactions. The doctor was slow and gentle, carefully expanding Sherlock’s comfort zone, and never pushing him to give more than he was ready to. It relaxed Sherlock to know that he didn’t need to enforce barriers, John didn’t need boundaries to be spelt out. Sherlock had to invite him closer before John would proceed and it was comforting. Ignoring the slightly fading erection, he followed his soldier to the kitchen after putting his robe on, wrapping himself around his partner the same way he wrapped the dark silk around himself.

John didn’t seem to mind at all, just continuing on making toast and tea like it was any other morning, except now they exchanged almost chaste kisses at the corner of each other’s mouths. It was charming and sweet, and Sherlock felt his fears melt away just a little more. By now, his body was nearly completely healed. Only a lingering stiffness in the skin along his back and legs remained as a reminder of what his transport had endured, the serums and strange treatments he’d undergone allowing his transport to accelerate its natural healing timeline. It was very odd. His new skin lacked the ability to grow hair, for now, at least. His specialists said that it would need to mature, perhaps in the upcoming months and possibly years, Sherlock would have something other than the completely flawless and smooth flesh that he newly possessed. It was very sensitive too, the nerve-endings easily stimulated making things like towelling off after a shower a very arousing experience.

Sherlock realized several minutes later that he was rubbing his still firm erection against John’s arse, and his friend hadn’t made even the remotest attempt to stop him. Sherlock froze. He still had his arms wrapped tightly about John’s torso, and the soldier was gripping the edge of the kitchen counter while two abandoned cups of tea and two portions of now cold toast that were growing colder. He resumed moving slowly when he felt John press back encouragingly. He couldn’t resist. John’s body was firm and warm, and it felt natural and good to rub his cock against the seam of John’s pyjama bottoms. It was easy to tell that John didn’t wear pants beneath them because his arse cheeks pushed apart beautifully to allow Sherlock to rut between them. John was breathing hard and obviously struggling to keep himself still, his hips twitching as he subtly pushed back to meet Sherlock’s inelegant thrusts. “I don’t know what I’m doing or even why.” Sherlock gasped.

“You’re a bloody natural, and we don’t need a reason if we both want it and we do. Proceed,” groaned John, “It’s brilliant.” Sherlock gripped John’s hips and responded to his wordless plea. He used his thumbs to hook under the waistband of John’s bottoms, sliding them downward, and John used one of his hands to yank the garment down until it was at his knees. Sherlock pulled his own bottoms down just enough to release his prick. The head of it was dark and jutted wetly out from his foreskin. Pre-ejaculate was in generous evidence, and following his instincts yet again, Sherlock used it to make himself slick before he went back to rubbing his shaft between John’s arse cheeks. He held onto John’s hip with one hand while he used the other to press his cock firmly against John’s backside, rubbing the wetness around John’s hole but never once trying to press in. _He was in control of this situation, not John, and it was exhilarating_. Sherlock began rocking steadily, and soon, he was snapping his hips as quickly as he could, his thumbs pressing his cock tight between his lover’s cheeks while John moaned softly. “That’s it, all over me, I want to feel you owning me.”

_Own._

_John._

Those two words broke the tension that had been building, and at the very idea of John surrendering himself willingly Sherlock felt himself pulsing shamelessly all over his best friend’s arse, holding his cock against John’s hole and spurting thick white blobs of come all around it. Sherlock dropped to his knees, struggling to breathe. With shaking hands he used a kitchen towel to wipe his mess away. Then Sherlock urged John to turn around, and without pausing to think about what he was doing, Sherlock sucked John off. _He’d done this for his master so many times but doing it for John was anything but awful._ However, it had gotten in there, Sherlock now knew the best ways to orally pleasure his lover, his brain providing all the right information at all the right moments. John made the most astonished sounds, he begged and made reckless promises, he cried out, and his legs shook. Sherlock found his lover’s responsiveness to be a heady rush, and with a deep happy groan, did everything he could to make John’s orgasm mind-blowing.

John’s cock was perfect. The girth and weight of it felt amazing as well as arousing and not frightening. The doctor was very hard, seeping a bit from his tip, but it wasn’t intimidating or overwhelming. Sherlock was barely able to get the entire head in his mouth and so he used his hand to stroke and press. It was delicious too, bitter and salty, with a hint of musk.  _Perfect_.

Sherlock’s hands slipped around John’s hips to grasp at his very sticky behind, and daringly, Sherlock swirled the pad of his finger around John’s entrance. John seemed to be having a hard time keeping his legs spread, so helpfully, Sherlock divested him of his trousers before he lifted one well-muscled thigh and draped it over his shoulder. This helped John keep himself braced against the counter and allowed Sherlock easy access to someplace he wanted to explore. Wetting his finger thoroughly, Sherlock gently pressed against John’s hole and was immediately rewarded by a choked off warning, “Coming." Sherlock pulled off just in time to receive several stripes of John’s come across his lips, his cheek, and his neck. He licked a bit up and decided that it wasn’t too bad. Perhaps the next time he tried this he would give a go at swallowing, certainly, it would be the less messy choice.

John didn’t seem to have a problem with the taste, or indeed, anything that had just transpired. He pulled Sherlock to his feet the second his trousers were back in place and kissed him deeply, almost hungrily searching for any trace of semen on his new lover's face. When the afterglow faded a bit, John was grinning hugely, “You’re amazing. I was not expecting anything of the kind.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat, “I wasn’t really thinking about what I was doing. I just did it.”

“You did it perfectly. That was the best morning sex I’ve ever had, ever. Brilliant.” John’s smile was still present, if softer now, “I wasn’t sure if you ever wanted such a thing from me.”

“I do. I did,  _before_. The nightmare was very real to me for a very long time, and it’s just…” he didn’t know how to explain himself. He _wanted_ to be in a proper relationship with John and had no factual excuse not to. It was all in his head. He had been sexually abused in his dreams, not reality, and the fears he still felt were based on delusions. “Processing what I recall from that and reconciling it to what happened in real time is ongoing. Apologies, John. I know this makes things difficult for you. I don’t…I don’t want you to feel like you’ve ever done anything to make me react negatively toward you.”

John understood, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s curls with gentleness, “In your own time, Sherlock. Whenever you want, whatever you want.”  _John was the amazing one. How did he have so much patience, so much tolerance?_  Even without a sexual component, Sherlock knew he was a difficult man to like, never mind love. He’s spent years keeping everyone away from him, locking his feelings inside, and pretending they didn’t exist. Now, Sherlock marvelled at John’s endurance. “I like how you make me feel.”

“How do I make you feel?” Sherlock was genuinely curious.

John’s answer was unhesitating, “Like I’m doing something worthwhile, like I matter to someone at last. You do such incredible things, Sherlock, but when you’re not, you let me look after you and spend time with you, and you don’t let anyone else, just me. I’m not special, not really, but you make me feel like I am.”

 _John looked so proud, so sincere! Mycroft had spent years telling Sherlock that he was greedy and selfish, and unsociable, but John Watson seemed to think that Sherlock's personality was a perfect match for his. John loved to fuss, he was a caretaker to the bone, a born watcher-over-mad-scientists, a brave and steadfast man. Sherlock was a challenge, a never-ending battle, and John loved every bit of chaos that Sherlock's existence produced. He was a miracle and no time would ever be better than right now to make a certain confession, something he’d felt for so many years and kept hidden_. “I love you so much, John.”

That handful of words made John go still, his mouth open and his face filled with stunned joy. Sherlock realized that his nightmare was comprised of all his hidden fears and weaknesses, his doubts, his uncertainty, and had been a reflection of how he’d always assumed love would impact him.  _Love wasn’t a prison! It wasn’t becoming enslaved to someone else’s needs. True love was a partnership, a matching of complementary characteristics that strengthened each partner and help them rise up_.

Telling John his feelings was liberating. He knew that John loved him back, that John would always care for him, would always support him, and while things might get rocky from time to time, John would always be there for him in whatever way Sherlock might need the most. They had their entire lives in front of them, time enough to learn how to love one another in every way they could find. Sherlock was free. He was  _more_. He was in love with John Watson just as much as John was in love with Sherlock Holmes, and that's all he would ever need to know in order to be happy, and he was.

 “I want to be yours, John, properly.” John looked serious now, gazing at Sherlock’s face, obviously searching for answers regarding his request.

“Sherlock, there’s no rush,” he tried to say but Sherlock wasn’t having any of it. “You’re hardly healed. You can’t possibly be able…”

“John, no, no there’s no rush but the longer we wait…” Sherlock cut him off as he tried to explain his fears, “The longer we wait, the more time those bad memories have to settle in. I don’t want them to become permanent. I want them to do what dreams often do, just dissipate.”

John’s face did a complicated display of feelings. He looked excited, dismayed, eager, and reluctant all at the same time, and once again, Sherlock marvelled at his abilities. John was incredible. He was the only person Sherlock knew that he had never tired of. “I want…” John trailed off, “Gods, yes, I want that too but, honestly, I’m more worried about accidentally triggering you.”

“I’m not…” Sherlock began to protest but the words died in his mouth as John’s worried expression made him think twice, “Fine, I agree that there’s a large chance that it won’t go well at first but John,” Sherlock moved, kissing his beloved friend tenderly, “It’s always been you, John Watson. If there is any person on this earth who can be with me like this, it is you and no one else.”

“I feel the same, in fact,” John seemed to be considering some things, “Let’s make a day of it. I can’t possibly go again for a few hours at least, so why don’t we have breakfast, get on with our routine, and then, after lunch, maybe we can go to the bedroom and I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.” Sherlock had a difficult time grasping the concept for a moment and began to speak but John cut him off, “I know that you want to prove something to yourself, to overcome the trauma of your dreams but listen for a moment, Sherlock. Your body is healed but it is still in a very fragile state. I don’t think you’re ready to receive me quite yet.” Sherlock scowled and John grinned, “That’s not no forever, love, what I’m _trying_ to say is, you be inside me.”

Sherlock blinked when all the details finally coalesced inside his brain and he understood that John was far from rejecting him, he was providing a very satisfactory alternative. “Are you certain?”

John shrugged and grinned, “I’ll never claim to be gay, Sherlock, but frankly, the idea of having you take me that way is kind of exciting. I like the idea of having you in me, on top of me, surrounding me. You’re already so much of my life, why not close the circle?”

Sherlock lost his ability to remain ambulatory while his brain seized upon the mental image of John writhing beneath him as Sherlock’s cock slipped deeper and deeper into his rectal cavity, “Can’t we start now? I’m ready.” His well-spent cock was doing its best to become hard again.

John smiled and laughed softly, reaching up to kiss Sherlock’s lips. “This afternoon, I promise. You can finger me, suck me, penetrate me, whatever you want.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement. _What else could he do? Much like John, as excited as he was to have penetrative sex, he wasn’t a young man anymore and if he wanted to share an orgasm with John later, then he’d have to put off having one right now._ It would be worth it. Deciding to put the intervening time to good use, Sherlock made himself comfortable on the sofa, deigned to allow John to drape a small blanket over him and to set his laptop on his knees.

Once he was perfectly comfortable and awaiting the incoming cup of tea that John was brewing, Sherlock began to research gay sex. He looked at diagrams and made mental notes. He read product reviews on lubricants and searched forums about how to prepare his partner to have a very stiff cock stuffed up his bum. It was very educational and much of it was already familiar to Sherlock, thanks to the nightmare. He promised himself to make this the most amazing sexual experience of John’s life, and that it would have nothing in common with their first time together inside Sherlock’s head.

While John ate his breakfast and got on with his house-keeping chores, Sherlock went upstairs to John’s room and relocated John’s lubricant and condoms downstairs to his own bedside table. Sherlock considered their needs, and fetched a large beach towel from their cupboard, and spread it out across his bed. He dug through John’s med kit and found the wet-wipes John kept there, setting half of them next to the lubricant and condoms. He then made sure the window was open so that the funky chemical smells that perpetually lingered would dissipate a bit before they retired here later. He wanted nothing to ruin their mood.

Sherlock still wasn’t moving as fast as he was used to, so he was surprised to see that John had commenced making lunch, had already finished doing their laundry, and had completed what little tidying Sherlock allowed in their sitting room. “Watch the chicken, yeah? I need a quick shower.” John left Sherlock to stir a large pan filled with blandly seasoned chicken bits and finely chopped veg. By the time John returned, Sherlock had added the curry sauce John had reluctantly chosen, and was plating up. “Curry before sex?”

“We normally eat curries more than anything, and I knew you weren’t going to let me feed you soft foods forever,” John pointed out. “If you feel okay about eating it, then I’m not worried.”

Sherlock was a bit worried, a bit, but not about food. He was worried that he’d make a complete mess of _The Sex_ he was about to participate in. _What if he hurt John? What if he tore him somehow, or bruised him? What if he was overtaken with animal lust and used John so hard that they needed to go to A &E?_ Sherlock dropped his fork and clutched his chest, gasping for air, “Sherlock! What’s wrong? Swallow something wrong? Panic attack? Heart attack? Sherlock!”

John was kneeling beside him on the kitchen floor as Sherlock gasped for air as his body relaxed the moment John had him in his arms. _He’d made himself freak out for nothing!_ “I’m okay, John.”

“Sure you are, Sherlock, that’s why you nearly got sick over lunch.” John sounded worried and upset. “I knew I’d do something to trigger you, I’m such an arse.”

Sherlock felt awful once more as John managed to find a way to assume guilt for what Sherlock had done to himself, “No, don’t say things like that John. I flustered myself. I’m…” he was so awful when it came to talking about feelings! “I’m worried that I might hurt you or begin doing to you what your dream counterpart did to me. I don’t want to do anything like that to you.”

Now John’s expression was fond and filled with a strange kind of heat, “You never could, not even when you believed you were a high-functioning sociopath.” Sherlock flushed. That diagnosis could never apply to him, not any longer. He had emotions, the full spectrum of them, and he was feeling most of them right then. “What should we do then, John?”

“I think we should get up, go to our room, and conquer your fears together.” John kissed him then, and it was gloriously wet, penetrating, and overwhelming.” Sherlock found his body responding strongly, and suddenly, he couldn’t wait to have John beneath him, “Let’s go, gorgeous.”

Everything seemed urgent then. Sherlock stumbled after John, both of them smiling and urging each other to go faster yet stay safely on their feet. Sherlock shut the bedroom door firmly behind him, shedding his pyjamas as quickly as John got rid of his clothes. Sherlock’s appetite was making his hands shake with want. John’s body was so arousing, so stimulating. Sherlock loved the fact that he towered over John, and yet, he wasn’t the physically imposing one in their relationship. Their mouths pressed together, and their hands began to wander hungrily as they took the next inevitable step in their relationship.

John twisted in Sherlock’s arms and went willingly on his hands and knees at the edge of the bed. Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to do, bending over, and kissing down John’s spine until he worked his way to John’s arse. His lover tasted of soap, and a bit of sweat from earlier. He was musky and tangy and so incredibly delicious that Sherlock knew he’d found a brand-new addiction. He committed himself to tonguing John avidly, pressing and licking his firm hole until it was relaxed and easy to slip inside of. One long finger followed another with strained patience as Sherlock drew out the preparation for as long as he could. He wanted John to be loose and sloppy with spit and lube before he went anywhere near him. John wouldn’t feel a twinge of pain, not if Sherlock had anything to say about it!

Sherlock stood on the floor, his cock harder than it had ever been. Carefully he drew on a condom and slathered it with an overabundance of lube. He knew he was being ridiculous with it but it was the only way he could allow himself to proceed. “Ready?” Sherlock stroked John’s back and hips tenderly, waiting for a reply.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, stop making me wait! I need…fuck, I need you inside me right now.” John’s voice was breathy and urgent, his body rocking backwards to encourage Sherlock to push inside, “Just…please, the head at least, something! I need it.”

Sherlock’s brain stopped producing words and went right into action-only mode. He watched himself hold his erection straight, pressing the head of his painfully hard shaft against the slick wet tightness of John’s hole. Both men groaned softly as Sherlock’s glans pushed John’s hole open wide. Sherlock nearly growled with pleasure as the tight wet ring of flesh began to swallow him, the wrinkled edges of John’s anus stretching into a gorgeous pink ring around his cock. “John,” he sighed, “Yes.”

He gripped John’s hips tight and inched inward until he was fully buried. Unable to wait for more than a moment, Sherlock began to press and rock, pulling out more each time until he’d built up a fast sliding rhythm that made John grunt upon each re-entry. John was chanting his approval with huffed out repetitions of the word _yes_ , and each pronouncement made Sherlock ride his soldier harder and faster.

Sherlock pulled out long enough to get John on his back. Pushing in, Sherlock kept John’s legs spread so he could watch himself enter but after a few minutes of delightful friction, he felt the urge to go faster and deeper. John was more flexible than Sherlock would have given him credit for, hooking his legs over Sherlock’s shoulders until he was bent nearly in half and still being fucked hard by his almost-out-of-control detective.

Sherlock braced his knees apart on the mattress and gave into his needs. Pounding into John, he almost sobbed, close to delirious with pleasure. It felt so good. John’s arse was going to be his permanent residence and it sounded like John might be on board with that plan. The doctor was stroking himself with one hand and playing with his bollocks with the other. Sherlock angled his hips a bit and found a stroke that made John’s breath hitch and his moans to grow substantially louder.

His orgasm hit him like a freight train, knocking him over, and causing his body to spasm. Pleasure rolled over him and through him, spurting out from his cock in shuddering bursts, “Sherlock, oh fuck yeah, Sherlock!” John’s hand was flying up and down his cock and didn’t pause until the first shot of come was released over his knuckles. John held himself tight, jerking upward in short bursts to milk himself of every drop. Sherlock felt him pulsing inside, squeezing the come from his cock too, and he wanted the world to stop forever and hang in this moment. It was bliss.

A long time later Sherlock realized that he was laying on his side of the bed and that John was sleeping beside him. The condom had been removed and John had obviously used the supplies Sherlock had laid out to clean them both up. With great gentleness, Sherlock gathered up his sleeping lover and closed his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to dream, not now. Sherlock allowed his lids to close as the scent of John and the sex they had just enjoyed filled his nose. He was warm, relaxed, sated, and safe. Sherlock’s mouth curved into a slight smile as he fell asleep, safe from his dark nightmare at last.


End file.
